


Stronger Together

by justafandomfollower



Series: The Justice League [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: AU, Gen, Oliver Queen Has PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2020-03-17 14:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 280,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18967438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justafandomfollower/pseuds/justafandomfollower
Summary: After stopping the Undertaking, public favor is now divided towards the Green Arrow – and it’s starting to lean in his favor. But his actions have attracted the attention of not one but two old friends, and public opinion is the least of Oliver’s troubles.





	1. A New Normal

_May 25, 2013:_

In the beginning, Oliver had justified his killings with the excuse that it was only temporary. He hadn’t come back to Star City to fight crime on its streets – just right his father’s wrongs and go after the members of the List.

He doesn’t know if he’d ever really believed himself, but he’d told himself that once he was done with the List he would hang up the bow and the hood and give up the life he was forced into on Lian Yu (and after). That by then, he’d be able to set aside the monster under his skin.

It hadn’t been meant to be permanent. Or rather, some part of Oliver had always thought it would be too permanent, in the most final of ways. He’d never really believed he’d live through it. 

But he has, and it is permanent now. Or, if not permanent, long-term at the very least. He’s given up killing in the pursuit of justice, he’s helped to stop the Undertaking, and he’s working on a different way of saving his city. It’s not about his father’s wrongs anymore (though he’d be fooling himself if he says it’s not still about his own, about the anger that still runs deep in him and the killer lurking under the surface).

He’s been out on the streets over a week now with this new mindset (with Malcolm Merlyn dead and his mother behind bars) but his different tactics as the Green Arrow are not the only thing to change with the end of the Undertaking.

Oliver feels… different. Lighter, almost. He’s not unburdened – he can’t ever forget his past – but his father’s mistakes have been corrected. And with his new approach to vigilantism also comes a new approach with regards to his friends and family.

As he’d neared the end, Oliver had meant to hang up the hood after the Undertaking, to return to them in a way he couldn’t during his mission. He’s not planning that anymore, having seen the way he can help the people of Star City, but it doesn’t mean he has to ignore them the same way he has been the past eight months. He’ll never be the man they lost, that man – boy – is long dead, but he can be something else, for them. His victory gives him the strength to push the monster aside for hours at a time, however much he is still keenly aware of the beast that lurks under his skin.

Oliver doesn’t deserve the fragile peace the Undertaking’s end has granted him but he’s going to seize it anyway.

Forgoing his usual spoiled playboy persona, Oliver corrals everyone together for the Rockets game early and they show up to the stadium before much of the crowd. He hasn’t forgone everything that makes him a Queen – ever mindful of how he appears to the public, they arrive in a limo, and their tickets are good ones, even if they’re not box seats – but he and his friends are dressed casually and on time. They’re not here to make a spectacle. It’s time for a new him, and maybe a real life (somewhat, with the Green Arrow still a part of it. Oliver can’t ever forget the blood on his hands).

Thankfully, after their fundraiser event, everyone present has already met everyone else, so Roy doesn’t look too awkward in the back of the limo with them and nobody raises an eyebrow at the inclusion of Felicity.

Digg, playing his role, drops them off in front before leaving to park the car, and the six of them make their way into the stadium. Roy is looking around curiously, with a small amount of wonder, and Oliver knows from seeing him that he’s never been to a game before, even if Roy is hiding his reactions well. Tommy is about as far away from Oliver as he can get, with Thea and Roy and Laurel between them, and he’s holding Laurel’s hand, but he’s not leaning away, not working too hard to avoid Oliver’s eye. When he catches Oliver glancing his way he gives a strained smile in response. (He’s trying.)

Felicity walks on the other side of Oliver, also gazing around curiously. She’s been to a game before, Oliver bets, but it’s probably not her thing and it’s probably been awhile.

It’s been awhile for Oliver too, but he doesn’t have much of a sense of wonder anymore. Instead, despite the fact that they’ve arrived before much of the crowd, his senses and paranoia are on high alert. It would be so easy for anyone to conceal a weapon and this is exactly the sort of atmosphere where bumping into someone accidentally ( _slipping a knife between ribs_ , Oliver’s suspicious side whispers to him) isn’t at all out of place. Even as he watches his friends, Oliver’s eyes scan the crowd around them.

Despite the fact that the criminals from the fundraiser had mostly seemed to be after him (and perhaps Tommy) it’ll be hard for him to let anyone out of his sight.

But they’re in a public area, and they’re not surrounded by people who have suffered at the hands of their families. No one else (except for maybe Quentin or Walter or Carly) even knew they were coming here. Oliver tells himself all of this more than once, trying to get his paranoia to relax. (It only slightly works).

Nevertheless, he enjoys the game, for the most part. The crack of the bat makes him visibly stiffen the first time he hears it, but only Digg notices and Oliver manages to hide his reactions after that. It’s not the most pleasant circumstances, crowded and loud in a place where everybody knows his name and stops to stare, but it’s the best company Oliver could have asked for.

And not only does Oliver enjoy it, but he can tell the others are relaxing as well. There is laughter and wide smiles between the occasional awkward pauses. Tommy and Felicity take to each other like fire and gasoline, for the first time able to have a conversation about something other than the Arrow. Laurel and Thea and Felicity bond together in a way that Oliver has only ever seen a group of girls do. Roy is hesitant and apprehensive at first, but he opens up and gains enthusiasm as the game continues.

Oliver sits quietly for the most part, watching his friends. His _friends_ , alive and whole and happy. Some of the stress Thea and Tommy have been under seems to disappear slightly. After the first couple innings, Felicity and Diggle stop shooting him worried looks, as though afraid he’s going to bolt at any second.

Thea and Tommy, Laurel and Felicity, Diggle and Roy. Oliver can’t relax, not really, but for the first time in a long time, he finds himself wanting to. To completely let his guard down, to be himself. For the first time, he considers telling those who don’t already know about his identity as the Arrow.

He can trust these people, all six of them, and that is a marvel that Oliver can’t quite comprehend. He can trust each and every one of them, even if he hasn’t quite put that knowledge to use yet. But trusting someone not to stab you in the back isn’t the same as trusting them with the secret of all the destruction he’s wrought. It’s selfish, but he’s not ready to spoil any more relationships at the moment.

Still, though the Glades were almost destroyed and his mother is in jail and Malcolm is dead, for the first time in the months since he’d returned – between going after the List and working to stop the Undertaking and doubting his mother’s motives and adapting to the changes in his friends – for the first time, Oliver thinks of Star City as _home_.

He doesn’t want to lose this. (Knowing him, he probably will anyway, so he’s going to enjoy every second of it that he gets and prepare for the worst.)

* * *

* * *

_May 26, 2013, early evening:_

The game helps Thea’s mood, but she still barely talks to Oliver, or spends time in the mansion. She even barely talks with her friends from school, regulating her company to only Roy and him and occasionally Laurel, who sometimes shows up to drag Thea from her bed or just keep her company.

She’s improving, but there’s more that Oliver can do to help her. He stops asking her to visit their mother, saving his requests for a later date, when she’s more willing. He tries to spend more time with her. He texts Laurel when she’s in a particularly bad mood (that seems to be the only time he and Laurel really talk: when they’re trying to help Thea and Tommy through this).

Thea is angry, furious with the world, and with their mother in particular. She doesn’t understand, can’t understand, won’t let herself understand what would drive Moira to such actions. Some days she is calm, others, after running across another news article or a particularly nasty social media post against the Queens, she lashes out. She’d helped out with the charity event, for Oliver and Tommy, but otherwise wants nothing to do with Queen Consolidated.

But the problem is, Oliver doesn’t know his sister, hasn’t let himself back into her life the way he should have, and now it’s too late. He helps where he can, but, luckily, aside from Laurel and Tommy (who has his own problems at the moment), he can think of one other person who had been there for Thea when he hadn’t.

* * *

“Oliver, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Walter asks pleasantly in surprise as he opens his door. “Is there new news about Queen Consolidated?”

Oliver offers his (ex?) stepfather a small smile, but he keeps his expression serious. “I wanted to talk to you about Thea,” he says. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” Walter steps aside, brow furrowing in concern. “Is Thea alright?”

As Walter shuts his door behind him, Oliver wonders if he expects Oliver to answer that question honestly. Their mother is in jail for conspiracy to commit murder – mass murder – and Thea refuses to visit her. All their talk about the business and how to manage it and who to manage it and they’ve never once brought up Thea.

He decides to ignore the question and jump straight into the uncomfortable topic he’s come to discuss.

“I understand why you left my mother Walter,” he starts.

Walter shifts uncomfortably. “Oliver,” he tries to start.

“No, listen. I _understand_ Walter, and I do think it was the best thing you could have done for yourself, but I’m not here about you, I’m here about Thea. She lost her mother, and she thinks she’s lost you too.”

Now Walter looks decidedly uncomfortable.

“I’m not blaming you, Walter,” Oliver continues. “You need space away – that’s fine. Space away from my mom, space away from the mansion – but not space away from Thea. I haven’t been there for her, the past few years. You were.”

“Oliver I…” Walter sighs. “You’re right. I needed space and I took too much of it.”

“You’ve been extremely helpful with Queen Consolidated, and I understand that you’re busy, but Thea needs someone. Someone other than me right now.” (Someone other than Roy.)

Walter deflates. “Of course.” He pauses, then smiles fondly, no doubt at some memory of Thea. “I just wasn’t sure if she’d be… comfortable, giving the timing of my exit.”

Oliver can’t believe that he’s the one about to give this advice but… “Comfortable or not Walter, you need to talk with her.”

Silence falls as Walter can only nod in reply.

“How are _you_ doing?” Oliver asks sincerely after a moment. It’s another question he hasn’t even thought about asking the past few weeks, and he chides himself mentally for his lapse. He’s supposed to be trying to be a better friend and while Walter may never be a father figure to him, he is a mentor of sorts.

Walter opens his mouth, no doubt about to spout out some nonsense statement about doing fine, then pauses as he no doubt considers who he’s talking to. “Adjusting,” he admits. He hesitates again. “I cried the first time I got to take a real shower.”

Oliver can remember his first shower off-island, but that had been in Hong Kong, under the watchful eyes of ARGUS. He hadn’t trusted his jailers and hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of a long shower, despite how good it had felt. He’d rushed through it, worried about the guards just outside his door. Still, he understands the sentiment.

He nods. “And the food?”

Walter looks at him as though he’s seeing him for the first time. “Also an adjustment. Sugary foods are a bit too much for me these days.” He pauses, and Oliver can practically see the wheels turning in his brain as a vaguely horrified expression creeps over Walter’s face. “Your first meal back, we didn’t even think–”

Oliver stops him before he can go any further. “It was fine, Walter,” he says. Truthfully it had been a bit rich, but he hadn’t eaten much anyway. He’d found out about Walter sleeping with his mother then, a truth he doesn’t have a problem with now – Walter’s a good man – though it had bothered him at the time. “It was a long way back to America and I had time to ease into it.” Plus, he hadn’t spent the entire five years living off the wild plants and animals on Lian Yu.

“Thank you, for this talk Oliver.”

Oliver looks over his ex-stepfather and starts making his way back to the front door (he hasn’t stepped far from it). “I told you, anytime Walter.” Despite his reluctance to talk about the island, he means it wholeheartedly. If their shared experiences (no matter how different they actually were) help Walter get through this, then it’s worth it.

* * *

* * *

_June, 2013:_

And life… moves on. Clean-up continues in the Glades, with the Arrow making frequent appearances in the late hours of the days and early hours of the mornings to dissuade criminals or stop them in their tracks. Moira gets moved to where she’ll be staying until the trial and Oliver meets twice with her lawyer to talk about their options. (Thea still hasn’t gone to see her).

Verdant reopens, Tommy sells Merlyn Global, and Queen Consolidated gets the word out about their rebranding efforts as they narrow down the selection for their new CEO. (Stock prices don’t exactly soar, but they stabilize and slowly start to inch back upward. Talk of a buy-out starts to fade.)

Oliver Queen makes a public appearance, condemning the attack on the Glades with Tommy and Thea at his sides. After the dinner at Verdant, he hosts a food drive, donates money to a prominent local construction company, and generally tries to show the public that Oliver has changed after the Undertaking (never mind that the change had occurred long before then).

There are other people besides Oliver working to make a difference. An alderman from the Glades starts speaking up, an anonymous donor contributes funds to a new library. The SCPD rearranges their vigilante task force to work with him – they’re still instructed to bring him in if they can, he’s a wanted murderer after all, but it’s no longer their main goal. They start to take his information as truth, even if they don’t like him.

Thea spends a lot of time with Roy, in the Glades, searching for something to do with herself. Laurel continues her work at CNRI, and continues helping people in need.

Certain things aren’t perfect – Thea won’t even talk about their mother, let alone go see her, and Tommy still hesitates when talking to him, often avoiding eye contact – but other things seem to be going exactly Oliver’s way. Walter’s giving him good advice, and the board actually seems to be listening to him. He and Diggle and Felicity have really solidified as a team, falling into their roles as soon as they get to the foundry – often together. Sometimes they get dinner together beforehand. Sometimes, if they stay up late, they stop somewhere for breakfast in the morning. Even Lance seems more amenable to the Green Arrow, though he still keeps his gun ready whenever they’re in the same vicinity. (And Oliver keeps an eye on Roy as well – he hasn’t stopped his search for the Green Arrow.)

Superman stops by once more, and Oliver teaches him how to fall properly.

It’s a new sort of life, but Oliver knows better than to get used to it, to get too attached to this different way of living. Something will screw it up eventually, probably him. That’s just the way his life works. (But he really doesn’t want to lose this. He’ll fight for it with every breath in his body, even if he won’t let himself adjust.)

* * *

* * *

_July 5, 2013, morning:_

Oliver reaches the ground level of Verdant at just after six in the morning on July fifth, walking amongst the red, white, and blue confetti that liters the floor. The place is a mess, even more so than usual, and though Oliver had put in a cursory fourth of July party appearance, he hadn’t lingered long.

Now the place is all but empty – even the janitors have a delayed start time. They won’t be around for a while.

But the place isn’t completely empty. Oliver weaves his way among tables and overturned stools, making his way to the bar where Tommy is straightening glasses.

He approaches hesitantly, delicately, not willing to startle his best friend. Two months later, Tommy is still adjusting.

“Sorry,” he says softly, “I know I said I’d help out more…”

But Tommy looks up, meeting his gaze, and Oliver stops himself from spilling the excuses on his tongue. This is Tommy – he knows exactly what Oliver was doing.

“Crowd control?” he asks, but it’s different than usual.

The disdain Oliver has learned to brace for isn’t there anymore. The slight hesitation when they talk about Oliver’s vigilante activities is gone, and Tommy seems almost genuinely curious.

Oliver lets his body visibly relax, offers up a small smile, and nods. “It was crazier than I expected out there,” he admits.

And then comes the hesitation as Tommy flounders, unsure of where to go from there. Except, after only a brief pause, Tommy speaks again. “Felicity and Digg go home already?”

Oliver takes the offering for what it is. He nods, light and easy. “Digg spent the night with family,” he admits, going for honesty, unwilling to hide these small details. “Felicity left around one in the morning – she has work today.”

Tommy’s reaction isn’t what he expects. Oliver’s friend blinks, pausing in his movements, and meets his gaze. “You mean, you were out there alone?”

Oliver lets a small frown onto his face, not quite sure what Tommy is asking. “I’m always out there alone,” he says.

“No, I know,” Tommy quickly returns, “I just thought…”

Still frowning, Oliver studies Tommy’s face. “Thought what?” he asks, though he thinks he knows what Tommy is trying to say. “Diggle and Felicity have lives, they can’t be with me every time I put on the hood.”

Now Tommy studies him. “How often do you go out without, y’know,” he waves his hand around vaguely, “backup?”

Oliver pauses a moment, trying to think of the proper response. In the end he settles for a shrug. It’s not like he keeps track, and though Felicity and Digg have both been on his case about telling them when he heads out, Oliver’s on his own often enough. Felicity still has a job at Queen Consolidated, and though Diggle tends to keep similar hours to Oliver, he’s got a family that needs him.

He thinks Tommy is upset about the lack of backup because he’s worried about Oliver, but he could be wrong. Tommy could just be upset that Oliver doesn’t have someone better than him, someone more moral and less willing to kill watching him. Oliver would dismiss that possibility with the argument that he hasn’t killed anyone in a long time, but it’s not true anymore, and his last victim was Tommy’s father.

“Doesn’t… doesn’t backup help?” Tommy asks.

Oliver offers him a shrug again. “Not always,” he admits. ( _Be honest_ , he has to remind himself. If Tommy’s already angry at him, the least he can do is offer him the truth.) “They can’t see everything that I can, usually they just let me know of any crimes in the area or where the police are.” He’s not much of a talker, and it feels weird to discuss his vigilante activities so frankly, out in the open, but Tommy deserves as much, and Verdant is safe.

Tommy hesitates again, his expressions revealing his inner conflict. “I… I can work a computer,” he ends up saying, “next time you’re alone I’ll, I’ll keep you company.”

It’s Oliver’s turn to freeze. Wherever he’d thought Tommy had been going with the conversation, this hadn’t been it. He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do that Tommy…” he starts.

But Tommy cuts him off. “I want to,” he says, more firmly than anything else he’s said this morning. “You’re helping people out there. I, I want to be a part of that.”

Oliver pauses and thinks it over. Tommy’s been downstairs more than once now, he’s seen Oliver in the suit, and it’s not like he’s asking to join him in the field. “I’d like that,” he responds honestly, and lets sincerity seep into his tone.

It’s a step towards friendship, and that’s more than Oliver has the right to ask for. Not after all he’s done. He’ll take what he can, even if that makes him selfish sometimes.

(And maybe Tommy’s trying to atone too, to make up for what his father had done no matter that none of the fault was his.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to old readers and new! Here's my sequel to my canon divergence AU that started with Starting Something. Stronger Together is going to be a bit different. For one, there will be a few canon scenes sprinkled throughout but most of it will be of my own creation. For two, it's going to be much, much longer. I put twenty chapters, but I wouldn't be surprised if it ended up being forty or so, since I haven't finished outlining it much less writing it. Let me know if you think I need to add any tags.
> 
> I'll also be sticking with the method I used for the last story, where I'll be posting each chapter 'in real time'. For example, this chapter starts on May 25th, which is the date I've posted it. The next three chapters are written, and they're sort of a three-parter:  
> Chapter Two: A Day in the Life, Part One will be posted July 16th.  
> Chapter Three: A Day in the Life, Part Two will be posted July 18th.  
> Chapter Four: A Day in the Life, Part Three will be posted July 19th. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!


	2. A Day in the Life, Part I

_July 16-17, 2013:_

Frustration spills off Roy Harper at every turn these days, affecting his work, his sleep – even his relationship with Thea. The last time he’d had a solid lead on the vigilante – on the hero they’re now calling the Green Arrow – had been back in May, two months ago. He’d scoped out Merlyn Global then, thanks to a tenuous connection between the company and the dark archer and had gotten nothing as a result of his efforts. Of course, Malcolm Merlyn had turned out to be a mass-murdering wannabe who’d tried to destroy the Glades, so Roy hadn’t exactly been incorrect about the connection, but it hadn’t gotten him any closer to the Arrow.

After that, with the minor earthquake and the not-so-minor rioting that had occurred, Roy wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d gotten distracted. There’d been a lot of work to do. He’d mostly been involved in clean-up, in moving the rubble from the streets and giving people a hand in rebuilding, but those activities had dwindled away by the end of June. Since then, Roy’s gone back to traveling the streets of the Glades at night, hoping he’ll catch a glimpse of the archer who’d done so much more than just save Roy’s life.

Like before those, his efforts don’t seem to be working. Roy’s not optimistic that that will change anytime soon, that random wandering is enough. He needs another way to contact the vigilante. But he doesn’t have one. The Arrow isn’t even going after Star City’s one-percenters anymore (at least, there’s been nothing in the news about him targeting any of them since the earthquake) so even if Roy had the means or the times to surveille one of them, that probably wouldn’t lead to anything either.

The only thing he can think to do, the only idea his brain keeps coming back to (over and over again), is to hit the streets himself. To do his own part to help the Glades. Except he _knows_ Thea wouldn’t like that, knows she’d get angry with him. (That’s the only thing holding him back.)

(He doesn’t think it will hold him back for much longer.)

A knock on his front door distracts Roy from his restlessness and he stands to answer it, wondering who it could be. Could just be Thea, but you always have to ready yourself for a fight when someone knocks on your door in the Glades, just in case.

It’s his neighbor though (sort of – the woman lives across the street and three doors down, but she’s friendly enough with him to illicit a nod in greeting whenever they pass) and she looks panicked.

“I’m so sorry,” she says in a rush, not bothering with a greeting, fingers curling and uncurling at her sides in a show of her anxiety, “I didn’t know where else to turn to –”

Roy reaches a hand out and grabs her arm, interrupting what would no doubt be useless rambling. “What’s wrong?”

She stills at his touch, visibly swallows, and takes a deep breath. “Sorry,” she repeats breathlessly. “It’s just, it’s my brother, he’s, he’s in trouble and I didn’t… there was no one else.”

She’s floundering, uncertain and hesitant. Roy steps outside, closing his door behind him. He understands the woman’s fear, even if he doesn’t know the cause of it, and understands why she came to him too. Several houses on the block are abandoned; Roy’s neighbor on one side is a drug dealer, the other is currently in jail; the guy across the street doesn’t technically have a rap sheet, but he’s definitely some kind of creep.

Roy’s got his own list of crimes to his name, but he doesn’t hurt people who don’t hurt others first. In this kind of neighborhood, that either makes him the best or the weakest guy on the block, depending on who you ask.

“What kind of trouble?” he asks, herding his neighbor down his steps and toward the street. Best to get this over with quickly, and not linger outside too long. It’s dark out – excepting the light pollution that constantly hangs over them – so he takes care to be alert of his surroundings, but he’s got enough of a reputation for fighting back, at least, that those from the block are unlikely to jump him. (Besides, it’s usually not a great idea to go after someone who knows where you live.) Strangers, on the other hand, aren’t quite so knowledgeable, so he never fully lets his guard down.

The woman – Sarah, Roy remembers – looks away, unable to meet his gaze. She doesn’t respond.

Roy wants to stop and turn, to demand some answers before he goes barging in to help with a situation he knows nothing about, but the middle of the street isn’t exactly the best place for that.

“What kind of trouble?” he repeats more firmly, even as his steps remain quick and constant.

“He… he… they wanted him to rob a store,” Sarah admits with trepidation, words trembling as they leave her. She glances up at him then looks away again. “He said no.”

A rock sinks into Roy’s gut. He knows what that means, even if he doesn’t know exactly who _they_ are. Gang trouble, and if the kid had already said no then he was probably pretty badly hurt. At that, Roy almost does pause. “Do I need to grab my first aid kit?” he asks. Every self-respecting idiot worth his salt on this street has one, even if it’s only dollar store gauze and rubbing alcohol. Roy’s doesn’t consist of much, but he’d helped himself to a few things in the Queen mansion when Thea had fussed over him after the earthquake. (It wasn’t stealing, he’d told himself, Thea had said he was free to take whatever he needed.)

Sarah shakes her head. “I’ve got one,” she says, though her tone suggests she might be worried it’s not enough. They’ve reached her door, and she pulls her key out of her pocket, letting him in.

Locking the door just to go across the street – Roy shakes his head in dismay and anger even as he worries about what he’ll find on the other side. What a world they live in. He knows Sarah loosely, has helped keep her kid brother Robby out of trouble several times now, even stopped him from getting a beating once or twice. Neither she nor her brother deserve to live like this.

But they have nowhere else to go. Not many people who live in the Glades do.

(Roy does now; even if he doesn’t really want to entertain the possibility, he knows Thea would take him in in a heartbeat.)

The sight in the living room is not what Roy had been expecting. He’d hope for scrapes and bruises, broken bones or a concussion or small stab wound at the worst. There is far too much blood for any of those things. Robby is laid out on the hardwood floor, towel bunched up under his left leg, old pillow under his head. The towel is already soaked through, white cloth turned blood red as the liquid seeps through onto the floor beyond it.

Roy pauses and has to work hard to tamp down at the anger welling within him. “He’s been shot,” he grits out through clenched teeth.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry…” Sarah starts, desperate and pleading.

But Roy isn’t angry at her. Robby is sixteen, a good kid who’d dropped out of school to help his sister. He’s young and still naïve enough to hold fast to his morals, whatever those may be. He’s bleeding on his floor from a gunshot wound to his left shin. Even if Sarah could afford the hospital bill, she knows better than to take a shooting victim anywhere unless they’re prepared to file a police report. (The clinics nearby were either damaged by looters in the earthquake or are overwhelmed by sheer numbers in the absence of those no longer operational.)

Roy shakes his head before she can start begging. “It’s not your fault,” he says harshly, having trouble reigning in his anger. Then he pauses, and his next words are a bit calmer, focused on the situation at hand. “What do you expect me to do?” He’s seen a few gunshot wounds in his day, but not many – Roy has mostly managed to avoid that sort of crowd.

“It’s just a graze,” Sarah says, “but I can’t… I can’t do the stitches.” She bites her lip and looks away, ashamed.

Roy nods once. “Alright,” he says, because how could he say no? “But no one’s ever said my sewing was any good.” His words are a weak attempt at levity that mostly don’t work, but they’re also an agreement to help and a casual dismissal of her shame. There’s nothing to be ashamed of anyway. Neither of his neighbors should ever have found themselves in this sort of position.

The wound’s already disinfected and Robby in a state between sleep and unconsciousness, but the young boy wakes when Roy starts, cursing and biting down on the washcloth Sarah gives him as she clenches his hand tightly. Roy’s resulting stitches are uneven – he _hates_ needles, hates them thoroughly, but he can stomach stitches better than shots, and both of them better when its not _his_ flesh the needle is going through – but he gets the job done. Standing in his neighbor’s kitchen afterward, washing the blood of a sixteen-year-old kid off his trembling hands, Roy feels his anger and nausea build, and its not just because of the needles. He wants to punch the wall in frustration, to hit _something_ , but this isn’t his house.

He’s going to find the Arrow. He has to, and he won’t stop looking. And, if for some reason the vigilante doesn’t want to let him help, Roy will take care of this on his own. This isn’t right, none of it, and Roy lets the righteous indignation burn through him, igniting his determination more fiercely than ever before.

* * *

Restless dreams wake Roy early the next morning, his mind unable to quiet enough to sleep properly or deeply. He’d left Sarah and her brother alone shortly after stitching Robby up – they were familiar enough neighbors for Sarah to ask Roy for help, but only because she had no one else to turn to. Sticking around in their home, their private space, would have been overstepping his boundaries and probably would have only made the siblings uncomfortable.

So it’s his own pillow that Roy groans into the next morning, when he resigns himself to the fact that he won’t be getting any more sleep. Reaching blindly toward the small table next to his bed, Roy latches onto his phone and turns it toward him. The screen illuminates with the movement and displays the time. 6:48. He groans again and lets the phone drop as he pushes his face back into his pillow. Way too early.

He can only manage to stay motionless for a few more minutes though. He’s awake now, and after the night he had there’s no hope of returning to slumber. Blinking, he shifts, throwing off his thin sheet before he can think too much about his decision to get up. It’s summer, and Roy’s air conditioning has been on the fritz lately, but he left his window cracked overnight and Star City is far enough north for a cool breeze to have infiltrated the house while he slept, so at least he didn’t sweat too much.

The sun has made its way above the horizon, but the Glades are west of the city proper, so the skyscrapers of Star City with shield Roy from its light a little longer. Despite this, electricity isn’t cheap, so Roy uses the light of his phone to root through his dresser, pulling out a red t-shirt and jeans, before disappearing into the bathroom and finally turning the light on.

By the time he’s showered and dressed though, it’s only 7:04. There’s no point in wasting water, whether hot or cold. At least he’s fully awake now. It’s too early to call Thea, too late to roam the streets looking for the Arrow. Pulling out a bowl of cheap cereal and sniffing at his milk to see if it’s gone bad, Roy sits at his kitchen table and runs through his mental list. Stealing a police radio hadn’t worked and scoping out Merlyn Global was no longer an option. Sure, the Arrow has been seen a lot more in the Glades since he’s stopped killing, but even the Glades are too large of an area for Roy to search. He needs a lead, needs something more than wandering the streets at night, hoping for trouble.

Maybe the news will have some information that he can use. Spooning cereal into his mouth and chewing almost mechanically, Roy unlocks his phone and opens up the website for the Star City Register. There’s gotta be _something_ in here that can help.

* * *

Just before eight in the morning, Laurel pushes her way through CNRI’s glass doors, weaving through the cluttered desks and cubicles that have become so familiar to her as to be comforting. She waves at Mark across the aisle when he glances up at her movements, nods at Cindy as the other woman switches out the notices on the bulletin board, and sets down her coffee on her desk as she looks around for Jo. There’s a stack of files on her desk almost a foot tall and it doesn’t look like she made any headway yesterday, though she knows she had.

When Joanna does appear barely a minute later, after Laurel has signed into her computer, Laurel is quick to give her friend a look. “Did you add to this pile?” she asks, amused.

Looking mildly apologetic, Jo sets down her own coffee cup – office brew, unlike Laurel’s, which she’d brought from home – as she takes her seat. “Sorry, you know how it is. Information just keeps coming.”

Laurel just grins and shakes her head in faux astonishment, settling into her chair. “Does it ever,” she agrees, very familiar with that fact. Internally she’s already debating on whether or not to sort through her email or start with the file on top.

Even the minor tremors that had happened in the Glades had caused some structural damage and CNRI had received plenty of would-be clients wanting to file for damages. Most of them had had to be turned down, and those largely because the structures or items destroyed or damaged hadn’t claimed to be able to withstand the kind of damage caused by an earthquake anyway. But a few claims had stood out and when Mark, their technical guy, had read through the scientific and technical product literature it had turned out that the cabinets in question had claimed to be able to withstand far more damage than had occurred.

Faulty labeling then, and, because several of the cabinets in question had been quite large and had collapsed on top of people, causing injuries aplenty (though thankfully no deaths), it was definitely a viable case. Jo’s stack of files of potential victims had been two feet high when they’d noticed the discrepancy and Laurel, with no case on hand at the moment, had pitched in. That had been two days ago, and, while they’d shrunk the pile slightly, weeding out cases that didn’t apply, more kept coming. Laurel had even decided to comb through past incidents the company had been involved in, searching for precedent to draw from or other faulty products they’d made.

She doesn’t regret it, it had been a good decision – Nick Major, the CEO, is as shady as they come – but it’s only added to their collective workload. If she’s honest with herself though, she doesn’t mind in the slightest. She’s always relished hard work (especially after… after loosing Sara) and she loves the opportunity to help people who have been hurt by injustice.

Grabbing a sip of her cooling coffee, Laurel decides to go for her email first and quickly gets to work. By the time lunch rolls around she’s sorted through all her emails, eliminated six cases as not relevant, found another one that applies, spent an hour helping Carol and Tom with their current case, and had another three files added to her stack. It’s been a good day so far and she’s grinning when she clocks out for a break, grabs her purse, and heads outside.

She’s meeting Tommy for lunch today only a block over and she heads off in that direction, staying alert even as she does so. CNRI isn’t in a terrible neighborhood, relatively speaking, but it is still in the Glades. It never hurts to be careful, even in the middle of the day. Still, the street looks better than it has in a while. The tremors hadn’t really done that much structural damage and in the days immediately following the quake donations and clean-up efforts had poured in from the rich of Star City – and around the country. It’s mostly faded now but CNRI, at the very least, will be able to survive off of those donations alone – not even counting their usual income – for several more months to come.

Sure, looting had increased afterwards and the people of the Glades aren’t happy, especially now that the city has gone back to ignoring them after only two months, but some things have improved (if only temporarily in some cases – it’s too early to tell if some of the changes will be permanent). There is a new library getting put in not far from CNRI and one of the main streets through the area has finally been repaved, and in record time too.

Laurel’s walk is peaceful and pleasant, even if it isn’t quiet. The sun is shining, fluffy white clouds dotting the breathtakingly blue sky as a light breeze plays with her loose hair. There’s plenty of traffic, and other pedestrians even, and Laurel is pleased to see the way the people of the Glades are carrying on. She doesn’t hurry until she sees Tommy waiting outside the restaurant, picking up her pace only for the last couple hundred feet, grinning at her boyfriend and giving him a small wave. The smile on his own face grows in reply, and it is almost ( _almost_ ) the thousand-watt grin that had been such a familiar sight before the quake.

Now, Laurel doesn’t see him smile nearly so often and her heart flutters a bit when she sees it. God but he is adorable when he smiles.

“Hey,” she says softly, coming up next to him. She leans in to brush her lips against his and her hand seeks out his firm grip as she does so.

“Hey,” Tommy replies just as softly when she pulls back. His hand squeezes hers and his smile softens.

Laurel could stare at the twinkle in his eyes all day when he looks at her like that, but they’re in a public place, and anyway, they’re here for lunch. “Have you been waiting long?”

Tommy just stares at her. “Never,” he says solemnly, with a hint of soft amusement in his tone.

She chuckles and squeezes his hand again. He’s having a good day then, not drowning in misery he shouldn’t feel over what his father had attempted to do. This is the Tommy she loves, the Tommy she’d missed after Malcolm Merlyn’s treachery and subsequent death. Laurel’s pleased to see him again.

(Truthfully, Laurel loves every version of Tommy, good days or bad days, but this one… this is the version she _fell_ in love with.)

They head into the restaurant hand in hand, exchanging talk about work. They both actually work the eight to four shifts, except that Laurel’s is eight in the morning to four in the afternoon and Tommy’s is eight at night to four in the morning, more or less (his hours are a bit less rigid than hers). He’s usually dead to the world when she leaves and gone by the time she falls asleep. They make it work though, having dinner together every night, as well as the occasional lunch. And though Tommy goes to work fairly regularly, his shifts are extremely flexible. If he wants to stay home with her one night, he does.

He’s so different from the man she’d started dating all that time ago, the two of them revolving around each other, dancing in and out as they’d mourned Oliver. But Oliver is alive, and they’ve all changed since that time.

Laurel asks for a booth at the hostess stand, so she can sit on a bench next to Tommy rather than across from him, and feels her heart melt when he leans against her as they sit. It’s so good to have him back.

* * *

By the middle of July, almost two months since the disaster that had threatened to pull them under, Queen Consolidated’s board has managed to narrow down the candidates for CEO to a pool of six potentials that they finally reveal to Oliver. (It is far from the only consequence of Moira’s press conference, and far from the worse consequence, but it _is_ a consequence, and one that threatens not just his family’s (his father’s) company, but the livelihoods of all of Queen Consolidated’s thousands of employees. They’re still fending off buy-out attempts from Stellmoor International, the one company that hasn’t seen to have gotten the message that they aren’t selling, and Oliver knows members of the board have been discussing layoffs as their stock price mostly stabilizes at a measly fraction of what it used to be.)

Oliver flips through the files he was given carefully, considering each option. He doesn’t really have final say, but, for lack of any other alternative, he has taken up a position as CEO until a more suitable candidate can be chosen. The CFO handles most of the day to day tasks a CEO should be doing (Walter’s replacement isn’t _Walter_ , but he’s not bad at his job either, and he’s not corrupt) but Oliver’s words have a heavy weight to them. So as to not make any future enemies, and because he still has no plans of actually running his father’s company, Oliver will largely leave things up to the board, but they won’t run the kind of background checks he will and he wants someone he can trust running his family’s company.

Three of the candidates in the files before him have previous experience in powerful positions and specifically applied for the job.

Timothy Johnson was the CFO of Alva Industries for almost twenty years. He’s sixty now, with grandkids. Oliver dismisses him almost instantly. He doesn’t like what he’s heard over the years about Alva and, even if he did, Johnson is close to retirement, probably looking to make a bit more money on an easy job before he heads to his vacation home in the Bahamas. Oliver doubts he truly cares about fixing the company’s image and he doesn’t want an even bigger mess on his hands when the man finally leaves.

Ed Carlin, on the other hand, isn’t yet fifty and he’s managed a division of Wayne Enterprises out of San Francisco for almost ten years now. Having started at the bottom and worked his way to the top, Oliver likes the looks of the preliminary profile he’d been given on the man. He makes a mental note to do a more thorough background check, the kind he’s not going to bother with when it comes to Johnson.

The third experienced man is (was) from high up in Merlyn Global. Daniel Van Schindel was born and raised in Star City, though he’d left for a number of years to attend an Ivy League college on the east coast and start his career. He’d jumped ship when the news of Malcolm’s plots had spread through the city, before Tommy had even sold the company that has now been sectioned off and rebranded under various names. Oliver needs to look into whether Van Schindel had just been trying to save his career or if he’d been truly horrified and wanted to make up for his former boss’s actions by turning Queen Consolidated around. He’s not willing to place any bets on whether or not the man cares about Star City just because he’s local, not without further information.

The other three candidates are considerably younger – one of them is even younger than Oliver – and probably don’t even know yet that they’re in the running for the job. These are the candidates the board is considering approaching with an offer, fresh new faces to bring an outside perspective to the company – and a positive PR spin to boost the stock prices a bit.

Two of them – Katrina Wilcomb and Raymond Palmer – caught the board’s eye because they’ve already made millions independently, on start-ups and technological advances. Wilcomb is only a couple years older than Oliver, Palmer a few years younger. They’d both bring a technical mindset to the business and they’re both reported to be enthusiastic hard workers. Jonathan Ramirez is also only slightly older than Oliver but his expertise is solely in business and finance. He has some radical new ideas about running larger companies that have granted him some fame. Gaining the position would make any one of the three among the youngest CEOs around.

Oliver sets Johnson’s folder aside and keeps the other five near him. Now that he’s read the background information on them that the board has, it’s time for him to see what kind of skeletons they’re hiding in their closets. (It’s not that the board hasn’t been thorough: Oliver has a complete credit history, every past girlfriend or boyfriend or spouse, every speeding ticket or minor car accident – anything most people would want – in the folders he’d been given. But his reach is so much further than what even the board with their private investigators is capable of.)

* * *

After the day’s work is done, Laurel hops in her car and heads for the Queen mansion, stopping at Thea’s favorite pizza place on her way. With two warm medium pizzas gently cooling on her passenger seat – plenty to eat now, plenty for Thea to save for later or for Oliver or Roy to join them if they’re around – she pulls up in front of the expensive house, tucking her car off to the side of the driveway.

The Queen’s are not so obnoxiously rich as to have a valet waiting to take her keys or a footman ready to open the door (well, they _are_ that rich, but they reserve such things for when they host formal parties) but it still feels awkward to leave her car parked where it is and ring the doorbell of the massive double doors. There had been security standing guard for a while, after everything that had happened, but the two bodyguards that had flanked the entrance at all hours of the day are long gone by now and Thea has ardently refused personal protection, no matter that Oliver still has Diggle in his employ.

Laurel’s used to the slight wait at the door though – in a house as large as the one before her, it takes time to answer the ringing that signals a visitor. Sometimes Raisa is nearby or, lately, the new maid ( _Emily_ , Laurel reminds herself) that Oliver had hired after the other one had quit but more often than not it’s Thea or her brother who answers the door. (Privately, Laurel usually hopes for Thea. Things between her and Oliver aren’t nearly as awkward as they were before, but they don’t spend much time together these days unless they are with someone else as well – usually Tommy, sometimes Thea).

It takes less than a minute for Thea to answer the door this time. The first few weeks after her mother’s betrayal the younger woman had rarely left the house, secure behind the men who had been hired to protect her privacy and avoiding the reporters camped out in front. She’d rarely changed from her sleepwear. The outfit she’s wearing now is relaxing, and clearly for lounging around the house in, but at least she’s changed.

“Hey,” Laurel says warmly, smiling down at her and withholding all judgement. She cannot possibly begin to understand what the young woman is going through. And yet they’ve still grown closer.

Thea is ten years her younger and when they’d been kids Laurel had spent all her time around Tommy and Oliver. Even after Oliver’s (and Sara’s) death Laurel had barely seen her around. She’d been too caught up in her own family falling apart to consider how Thea was taking things. But after the disastrous car accident on Thea’s eighteenth birthday, and after Oliver had appealed for Laurel’s help and she’d gotten the younger Queen community service at CNRI (and after Moira Queen confessed that she’d been part of a plot to murder thousands) Laurel has been spending more time with Thea.

“I brought dinner,” she continues, lifting up the pizza boxes resting on her left palm.

Thea spots the name on the boxes and lights up, taking them off of Laurel’s hand and opening the door wider with her foot as she does so. “You’re a goddess,” she says with a wide grin, and steps aside to let Laurel into the house.

Laurel chuckles as she enters the Queen mansion. “I take it you haven’t eaten yet?”

“I’m about to,” Thea replies, shifting the pizza boxes to one hand as she closes the door behind Laurel with the other. “C’mon, Oliver isn’t home at the moment.” She gives Laurel a knowing look.

“I don’t have anything against Oliver…” Laurel starts to say.

Thea just laughs again. “Relax, I’m his sister. I know all his faults.”

Her grin fades suddenly though, and Laurel knows exactly what she’s thinking. She’d known all of Oliver’s faults at one point too, at least before the _Gambit_ , before he’d returned a changed man after five years away. It’s a topic she hasn’t yet broached with Thea but there had been a time when the two of them had been the closest women in Oliver’s life, even if they’d been only girls at the time.

“He… seems to be getting better,” Laurel offers hesitantly. She isn’t just talking about in the wake of the revelation of their mother’s actions. She’s talking about in general, since he’d returned home last October stiff and cold. “He’s talking to Tommy more, at least.”

Rolling her eyes but still somber, Thea nods. “Yeah, he tried to talk to me about _college_ the other day. You should have seen his face.”

Laurel can just picture it: still and serious and so unemotional these days but with that hint of panic around his eyes remnant of who he used to be. She cracks a grin again. “Didn’t go so well?” she asks, sliding onto the bench before her as they reach the kitchen table (the Queens have an honest-to-God curved _booth_ in their kitchen, instead of just a normal table). She knows better than to push Thea about college herself. That’s not her place, and it’s not what the younger woman needs from her.

Thea pushes her aside lightly, sliding in after her with the pizza instead of taking the opposite side of the bench, and shakes her head. Something of a smile has returned to her face as well. “How’s Tommy?” She flips open the lid for the top pizza without bothering to search for plates and takes a slice.

Taking a slice of her own, and giving Thea a side glance, Laurel responds. “Tommy’s doing better too. He’s back to running Verdant almost full time.” She pauses, then, before Thea can say anything: “You?”

“I thought this was girl’s night, not therapy night,” Thea returns before she takes a bite, but she’s not as unhappy as she would have been with the questioning a few weeks ago.

“Who says it can’t be both?” Laurel says, and takes her own bite.

* * *

Roy gets to the Queen mansion relatively late that night and still feels super uncomfortable as he pulls up in his neighbor’s old beater (Marco’s, not Sarah’s), parks behind the car already in the driveway, and knocks on the fancy wooden double doors. All his life he’s lived in the Glades and now here he is dating the one percent. He doesn’t know what he did in his life as to make him so lucky as to deserve Thea Queen. He’ll never get used to it, he often thinks to himself, not for so long as Thea will have him.

It’s Oliver who answers the door though, and despite the fact that the other man is a spoiled, soft billionaire without any of the fire Roy sometimes sees in Thea’s eyes, he’s still Thea’s older brother. And he had managed to survive five years alone on a deserted island. Roy doesn’t worry so much about what the other man can do personally if he screws up, but Queen’s resources are beyond Roy’s imagining. He toes the line as much as he is capable of doing around Oliver.

“Roy,” Oliver says in greeting, and his smile is warm, if faint. (He’s not a very emotional man, Roy’s noticed. Not that he’s much better, but at least he _laughs_ sometimes.) “Thea’s upstairs with Laurel.” He steps aside to let Roy in.

Despite the fact that he’s been here numerous times over the past couple of months the Queen mansion never fails to take him aback every time he walks through the front door. The foyer alone could probably fit his entire house inside it.

“Thanks,” he says to Oliver, and is grateful when the other man shuts the door behind him and disappears with a nod – this way there are no awkward attempts to converse with the other man. What would he even say? What do he and Oliver have in common?

 _Thea_ , Roy thinks to himself fondly, and he makes his way to her bedroom, winding up the intricate staircase and treading carefully through the halls that seem to exist more for decoration than for actually living in. He can just picture Thea running through these same halls as a child, without a care for the opulence that surrounded her.

( _Spoiled_ , the cynical old part of his brain sneers, his hatred of the rich – so unaware of what they have – not forgotten yet. But Roy rather likes the mental picture in his mind, of a laughing young Thea who doesn’t know enough about money yet to realize how much she has. Or to care about the priceless artifacts on the walls of her own home.)

Thea’s bedroom door is cracked open, voices emanating from beyond, and Roy knocks lightly as a warning as he pushes the door open fully. Thea is sitting on her bed and she cranes her neck to see him, turning as much as she can in her position and lighting up with one of the most breathtaking smiles Roy has ever seen.

(He thinks that every time.)

“Roy!” she exclaims, and it doesn’t make sense that she’s always so excited to see _him_ , but his heart still flutters in response every time. (He’s just going to end up disappointing her, in the end, but he’ll do what he can to deserve her love in the meantime.)

She doesn’t get up to greet him though, because Laurel sits behind her, threading her fingers through Thea’s hair and deftly arranging it into a delicate braid. Roy might have once cracked a joke about girl time, but he’s lain with his head in Thea’s lap as she runs her fingers through his own hair multiple times by now. He finally understands the appeal of that sort of closeness, of a physical comfort that doesn’t (necessarily) have anything to do with physical attraction. For perhaps the first time in his life he wishes that he knew how to braid and that it was him, not Laurel, who was weaving his fingers through Thea’s hair. It’s a fleeting thought though.

“Hey,” he says cautiously. He doesn’t really know Laurel that well, but he’s bumped into her more than once at the Queen mansion. Still, he knows that she’s a lawyer and he’s very familiar with the fact that her father is an SCPD detective. Even more than Oliver and Diggle, Roy treads carefully around her, no matter that Lance had let him off easy that time he’d stolen the police radio.

Thea pats the bed. “C’mon in – you missed pizza but there’s still some left downstairs if you want.”

Laurel nods in greeting and agreement as well, hands full.

Roy grin. Free food is always nice, and if it’s food from the Queen mansion it’s good food. Still, that’s not why he came and it’s not why he’s now dating Thea. He steps into the room and makes his way to the bed, sitting down gingerly on the edge. Around Thea and Thea alone he can sometimes forget about his ratty clothing and worn-down shoes and the way he simply doesn’t fit into this kind of life. But with Laurel, or anyone else, there, with someone else serving as a distraction and reminding him of where he is, it’s all he can think about. Thea’s bed is a king, the blankets pristine and probably more expensive than his entire mattress.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” he asks.

“I was just about to head out,” Laurel answers easily. Her tone doesn’t ring false, at least. “I wanted to get back before Tommy heads out for the night.”

Tommy Merlyn, another billionaire (now a millionaire?) and Oliver Queen’s best friend since childhood. He works at the nightclub in the Glades, Verdant. Though it’s Oliver who owns it, apparently it’s pretty much Merlyn who runs it.

Roy nods at the information and doesn’t know where to go from there. Defensive trash talk he can handle, casual conversation with a near stranger who he actually wants to like him on the other hand…

A hand entwines with his own, Thea’s soft fingers lacing through his own and he squeezes in response, looking up once more to smile softly at her.

They (or at least Roy) make awkward small talk until Laurel leaves a few minutes later. Thea tugs at Roy’s hand, leaning back against her many pillows and pulling him with her.

“Long day?” she asks as he kicks off his shoes and sinks down next to her on the bed.

He frowns and shakes his head at the memory of the previous night. He doesn’t want to tell her everything – she doesn’t need to know that – but what he saw, what he did, is still weighing on him. “A neighbor,” he says, “they, um, ran into a bit of trouble. Needed some help.” It’s a vast oversimplification, but he’s pretty sure Thea can hear the exhaustion in his tone.

She squeezes his hand reassuringly, and she seems just as exhausted as him.

“You?” he returns.

Thea sighs. “I don’t know, I just…”

Roy gets it, or at least he understands what Thea is trying to convey. She’d lost her father six years ago and now she thinks she’s lost her mother too – because her mother had been part of a plan to kill everyone in the Glades and that included Roy. He never knows what to say to that though. There’s no love lost between him and his parents and he can’t bring himself to defend Moira’s actions, even if her intentions had been just to protect her family. He sighs too and tightens his grip on Thea’s hand.

They all have good days and bad days. At least these days, they have each other too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for waiting! This chapter (and the next two) are sort of slice-of-life moments for various characters after the Undertaking, then we'll get back to the plot and character issues. Enjoy!


	3. A Day in the Life, Part II

_July 18, 2013:_

Two in the morning is fast approaching when Tommy spots Felicity slipping out the back door of Verdant, and it is only pure coincidence that he’s back there when she does so. He waves at her as she leaves, and she offers a tired grin in response, but truthfully Tommy’s mind is more focused on trying to remember if Diggle had come in with Oliver that night or not. It’s been a couple of weeks since he’d finally mustered up the courage to talk with Oliver and offer to help out slightly, but he’s only been to the basement once since then.

He thinks, now, he sort of understands where Oliver’s coming from. Adam Hunt had had a daughter. Nelson Ravich a wife and two sons. It’s not as though Oliver hasn’t killed too, he knows (and he doesn’t let himself think of the names of Oliver’s victims, of whether or not they had families), but… The hostages at Christmas, innocent people taken only to draw out the Green Arrow. The _Glades_. So many people who’d done nothing wrong. Tommy wants to think he can’t reconcile that version of his father with the one he’d known and yet… He doesn’t really know, does he?

He’d never gotten the chance to ask Malcolm those kinds of questions. _There wasn’t time,_ he reminds himself for the umpteenth time. _The city was in danger_. And he gets that, he _does_ , but it doesn’t change the fact that Oliver killed his father before Tommy got any closure. But the arrows, the costume, the earthquake devices… are those not evidence enough? (He knows his father was a killer, but he still wants to ask him _why_.)

Regardless, Tommy thinks he understands Oliver’s anger now, and his need to act. He can’t just sit by anymore while people suffer because of their parents’ actions. Tommy’s furious at Malcolm, who’d left a kid alone in the wake of his mother’s death, who’d thought that razing a city down with the people still in it and then building it back up again was an acceptable response to… to what Tommy doesn’t know. Poverty? The actions of a few lawless individuals in a city just struggling to get by?

He doesn’t know, he’ll never know. And he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand the urge to kill – by Malcolm or by Oliver – or the violence, and he still can’t reconcile the father and best friend he knew before with the ones that exist in his mind now.

But he wants to help. He needs to do something. And he understands that that’s what motivates Oliver too.

As the door closes behind Felicity, he hesitates only a moment before typing in the code that unlocks the basement. Verdant’s business is winding down but the music still pumps loudly through the speakers. He doesn’t need to be present full time for things to run smoothly. He types in the passcode and descends the stairs.

The base of the Green Arrow’s secret operations is sleek and clean, high tech and well stocked. Pristine exercise equipment stands side by side with state-of-the-art computers. The cart that holds the medical equipment is tucked away in a corner; extra arrows are arranged on their racks. The mannequin that holds the characteristic green hood is bare. Nothing has changed since the day that he’d helped Felicity update the space.

He wonders idly if Oliver is the one keeping the space clean – they certainly don’t let Verdant’s cleaning staff downstairs – but a noise pulls him from his thoughts.

The place isn’t empty. As Tommy reaches the bottom of the stairs the bathroom door opens and Oliver steps out. He’s wearing casual clothing at the moment and carries the Green Arrow’s suit in his hands.

“Tommy,” he says, seemingly calm and unsurprised.

Tommy attempts a smile. “Done for the night?”

Oliver pauses, seems to consider him (thinking about whether or not to lie?), then nods. “I have to give my opinion on the CEO candidates to the board today,” he says. “I was going to follow up some last-minute research.”

Not something that Tommy can help with, then. He’s glad he’d sold Merlyn Global as soon as possible, even if he understands why Oliver refuses to do the same with Queen Consolidated. His parents, after all, had both tried to back out of the Undertaking eventually. Tommy wants nothing to do with his father’s company (though he has been thinking about restarting his mother’s clinic in the Glades, now that he has some extra money again).

The thought reminds him of something else though, and he pauses. “The… my dad’s house,” he starts hesitantly. “Will you help me search it? For… for anything he left behind?” The police, the lawyers, even some agents from various federal agencies – they have all finished combing through the vast mansion and it now sits abandoned and empty on acres of pine forest outside Star City. Tommy doesn’t want it, but he worries that the searchers hadn’t found all his father’s secrets. They hadn’t found anything of the dark archer there, after all (though the evidence in his office had been enough).

Oliver is the only one who had really known what his father had been, in the end, and Oliver had grown up running through the halls with Tommy. ( _And Oliver,_ Tommy thinks but doesn’t want to, _can handle himself if there’s anything dangerous to be found._ )

Oliver’s gaze sweeps over him and he nods. “Of course,” he says easily.

Sometimes, Tommy can forget that his best friend was a killer. Sometimes, Oliver smiles or laughs or jokes, and Tommy can’t forget that he was gone for five years, a gaping hole in Tommy’s heart, but he can forget what those five years turned Oliver into. (Sometimes he wonders if that makes him a bad person, that he can forget such terrible things so easily and treat Oliver as if he isn’t a murderer.) But when the Green Arrow is involved, Oliver acts like he’s walking on eggshells around Tommy, waiting for him to snap, and because of that Tommy can never forget, not down here in Verdant’s basement.

Each word Oliver says to him down here has weight, carefully thought out, and Oliver’s mood is always agreeable and honest. Tommy wonders sometimes if it’s because Oliver doesn’t think he can handle what the Green Arrow does. (He wonders sometimes, if that’s the case, if Oliver is right.) Outside the basement, Oliver returns somewhat to the man he’d once known. Here, he treads carefully, and it’s starting to grate on Tommy because, while he can tell that Oliver is deliberately making sure to answer Tommy’s questions truthfully, he never talks about what he does in the suit.

“Get any bad guys?” Tommy asks suddenly, changing the topic abruptly, as though daring Oliver to answer truthfully. He’s tired of being treated like the kid here. Maybe that’s hypocritical, maybe he _should_ be treated lightly – he’s displayed his reluctance clearly, called Oliver a monster for what he’s done, and he’s still not even sure he’s okay with the fact that his best friend is – good guy or not – a murderer. He’s forgiven Oliver for killing his father.

(He thinks he has, wants those words to be true, because if it had been a choice between Malcolm, about to level the Glades, and Oliver, fighting for Star City… He _knows_ Oliver made the right choice. He wants to believe it.) But he’s not sure he’s ever told Oliver that he forgives him and, now that he’s thinking about it, he hasn’t apologized for the cruel way he’d treated his best friend when he’d learned the truth.

Of course, Oliver had all but said he wasn’t going to apologize for killing Malcolm. He’d explained his actions and shown no remorse. But Tommy remembers the ‘motorcycle accident’ that put Oliver in the hospital last Christmas, and those few months when the city wondered if the dark archer had killed their green one. There will be no apology coming, he knows that, but what he doesn’t know is if he needs one.

Oliver had explained what had happened, laid out his reasons (a fight to the death, him or Malcolm), and that might be enough for Oliver not to be torn up about what happened, but Tommy’s not sure yet if it’s enough for him. He _wants_ it to be, achingly and desperately wants to believe that Oliver made the only decision he could have. But, whatever his faults, Malcolm had been his father.

And Tommy had never gotten the chance to ask him _why_.

“A few,” Oliver says in response, and again his words are light and easy and slow, a carefully thought out answer to Tommy’s question.

_What can I say,_ Tommy thinks to himself sarcastically, scornfully, _that won’t offend Tommy’s ‘delicate sensibilities’?_ But he deflates somewhat at the harsh thought. That isn’t fair to Oliver. Hadn’t he just been thinking that he wasn’t sure if he was comfortable with the violence within his best friend? Hadn’t he just been wondering if he could ever be okay with knowing how much blood Oliver had on his hands? He’d lost Oliver for five years, then almost lost him again when he’d learned the truth about his best friend. _Maybe Oliver doesn’t want to lose you again, you think of that dummy?_

Tommy’s made his reluctance clear. Maybe it’s time to change that.

“Really?” he says, and despite his thoughts he can’t keep some of the irritation out of his voice. He _had_ said he wanted to help, hadn’t he? ( _Yeah,_ his mind reminds him, _but you also said you wanted nothing to do with a murderer, once._ )

Oliver pauses from where he’s hanging up the suit and glances over at him. He frowns ever so slightly. “Everything alright upstairs?” he asks. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to talk about Verdant this weekend…”

Tommy shakes his head. “There’s nothing wrong with the club, Oliver. I just… I said I wanted to help and I meant it – you don’t need to, to keep _hiding_ things from me.”

“Tommy…” And still Oliver hesitates, still he doesn’t speak.

Tommy throws up his arms in frustration. So what if he’d changed his mind, he’d _changed his mind_! He’d said he wanted to help! Why can’t Oliver believe that? “Just… you don’t have to keep tiptoeing around me! I might not like what you did before but you’re still my best friend, Oliver! I want to _help_ you!”

There’s the slightest pause, barely even discernable, before Oliver replies, low and thoughtful. “Am I?”

There’s no hesitation in the words this time, no confusion in Oliver’s tone. This isn’t Oliver doubting himself, this is him saying: “I thought you didn’t trust me anymore.” This is Oliver thinking that even Tommy’s offer to help doesn’t negate what he’s said previously.

Or, rather, it is Oliver doubting himself so completely that he automatically assumes that Tommy wants nothing to do with him anymore. (He hadn’t really fought back, had he, when Tommy had called him a monster?)

“Both our fathers are dead because of me, Tommy,” Oliver continues, since Tommy is struck speechless, stunned and immobile. It’s the first time they’ve talked about Malcolm since that conversation on the roof two months ago. It’s the first time he’s heard Oliver speak about Robert at all, since he’d admitted the man was dead after his return.

Tommy shakes his head almost absentmindedly, not so much in denial of Oliver’s most recent words (Oliver definitely did kill Malcolm, regardless of where the blame should lie) but in a refusal to agree with the question that had struck him speechless in the first place. Oliver has never not been his best friend, even when he’d wanted nothing to do with the other man. (That’s why it had hurt so much, knowing what Oliver had done.)

“So?” he replies in frustration, and he doesn’t mean it, not really, but he’s more hung up on Oliver’s doubt than on his guilt. “Yeah, you’re my best friend! I… I was a wreck without you – when you were dead _and_ when we weren’t speaking! I don’t _get_ you anymore but that’s not my fault! I’m trying here Oliver, I really am – I offered to help, and I _meant_ it – but you, you won’t talk about anything! You won’t talk about what happened to you and you won’t even talk about, about what happened _last night_! You don’t have to hide things from me!”

Oliver’s mouth opens slightly, but then closes again, and Tommy circles back to Oliver’s earlier comment. “How can you even blame yourself for your father’s death? _My_ dad killed yours, remember?!”

And there. He’s said it out loud. There’s no going back from this now, no hiding the truth, if only to himself. His dad had sabotaged the _Gambit_ , killing Robert Queen, Sara Lance, and everyone else on board besides Oliver, who had only narrowly survived. He’d blackmailed Moira Queen into helping him, and kidnapped Walter Steele to ensure she did as ordered. His dad had murdered Adam Hunt and several others in cold blood, had tried to kill Oliver (the Green Arrow) more than once, had taken hostages at Christmas time to lure out the Arrow. He’d wanted to level the Glades, and everyone in them – thousands of people, and Tommy might not have ever gotten the chance to ask _why_ , but does that even _matter_ if it means all those people get to live?

Silence settles between him and Oliver. Tommy’s breaths come quickly, his breathing heavier, his chest – rising and falling as if he’s been running – seems to be the only thing moving in the room. He forces himself to take a deep breath and stares expectantly at his best friend. He actually feels better, now that he’s said it aloud (Malcolm Merlyn is the entire reason behind the fact that Oliver had the skills to kill him in the first place) but he’s still waiting for the response.

“It’s… I don’t…” Oliver grits his teeth and looks away. “I’m not going to talk about what happened on the island,” he finally says, “but my dad… my dad didn’t die when the _Gambit_ sank.”

The words should strike Tommy right to the heart, a startling revelation, but, somehow, they just… don’t. Not right away. He’s too focused on Oliver, on the way he’s almost _fidgeting_ in front of him, rubbing his fingers together on his right hand. Instead, Tommy is struck by the realization that this is as nervous as he’s ever seen Oliver since he’s returned, the most uncomfortable the other man has been. Announcing that Walter and his mother were sleeping together during his first dinner back, revealing himself to save Malcolm’s life, asking for Tommy’s help to stop the Undertaking, meeting with him afterward to tell him the truth about his father – Oliver was never uncomfortable during any of it.

He’d known what he’d been doing, had made his decisions and stuck to them.

Here though, here Oliver hesitates, not because he’s trying to phrase things in a way that won’t upset Tommy but because he doesn’t know what to say at all. Not for the first time, Tommy wonders what happened to him that turned him into _this_ and feels a strong surge of anger at the people who did this to his best friend – because there was no way Oliver had been alone those five years, not with the way he reacts every time the island is brought up. Tommy knows that for certain, at the very least.

But then the anger and the pain he’s feeling on Oliver’s behalf is replaced by a wave of confusion and shared grief with his best friend, as he processes the actual words Oliver had said.

“But…?” he starts, trying to understand what it means, that Robert didn’t die with the sinking of the _Gambit_. The look on Oliver’s face stops him from saying any more, from interrupting Oliver before he can get all the words out, because he knows if he truly interrupts Oliver won’t be able to finish.

“We made it to a life raft,” Oliver continues. “Me, him, and another crewman. We drifted for days. But there… there wasn’t enough food and water for all three of us.” He pauses again, swallows, and Tommy can’t even imagine what it would have been like, half-starving, watching your father die from starvation too, right in front of you.

“My dad shot the crewman, then told me to right his wrongs before he shot himself in the head.”

Tommy flinches back at the casual statement. Oh God, that is a hundred times worse than anything he’d been picturing. And the way Oliver says it… his voice is tight, his hands clenched, but there is no wetness to his eyes, no hint of a breakdown, just anger and pain in his tone.

“You can’t… you can’t blame yourself for _that_ ,” Tommy says incredulously without thinking, speaking on instinct. He’s struck by the story, incapable of imagining what that must have been like for Oliver. His mind whirs with half-imagined scenarios, torn between trying to picture the scene and desperately not wanting to. He almost doesn’t notice the sharp look Oliver gives him in response.

“He’s dead because of me Tommy.” Oliver’s voice is hard now, insistent. As if there is no possible way that he will accept any other version of the story.

Robert… well, he hadn’t exactly been like a father to Tommy – too busy with his company and adult things to pay a great deal of attention to the children in his life – but he’d been more of a father to him than Malcolm, after his mother’s death. Tommy isn’t exactly surprised when he realizes there’s moisture in his eyes.

He knows it’s half grief for a man he’d loved, and half anger that Oliver’s lived all this time thinking it was his own fault his father had died.

“He died so you could _live_ – that was his choice. In what world is that your fault?”

Oliver looks away, swallows, and doesn’t reply.

Tommy shakes his head, overwhelmed, a fountain of shock and grief and frustration. “That wasn’t your fault Oliver,” he says plainly, and the way Oliver is (or rather, isn’t) reacting tells him that Oliver doesn’t believe him. He wonders, almost in a detached sort of manner, if he’s the first person Oliver has told this story to – if he’s the only one who _can_ tell Oliver not to blame himself for Robert’s death because he’s now the only one who knows the truth.

Oliver turns back to face him. “When did you want to head to Malcolm’s house?” he asks, blatantly and unashamedly changing the topic without a hint of a single emotion on his face. “This weekend?”

Tommy thinks about trying to convince Oliver, trying to tell him again and again that Robert’s death isn’t his fault, but he can tell the conversation’s over. Oliver doesn’t want to hear anything more, and Tommy’s still torn up by the little information Oliver has revealed, caught up in wondering how much of this new Oliver is because of his father’s death and how much Malcolm’s death will change _him_. He bites his lip, then shrugs half-heartedly. “Sure.”

Oliver nods once, then turns to the computers and takes a seat. Tommy lingers for a moment longer, mind reeling from all that he’s learned, cursing his inability to respond properly, before he realizes that they’d never exactly finished talking about what had prompted the entire conversation in the first place.

_You’re still my best friend_ , Tommy had told Oliver, and Oliver’s only response had been _Am I?_

“It wasn’t your fault,” Tommy repeats, staring at Oliver’s back. “And if you get to make up for your father’s actions, then so do I. I’m not going anywhere.”

Oliver doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move, but Tommy knows he’s been heard. He hesitates, wondering if he should say something else, but he can’t think of any appropriate words. His footsteps on the stairs are entirely too loud and, as much as he believes his own last words, his mind is entirely too shattered by what he just learned for him to think he’ll be getting any sleep that morning.

* * *

The sun has long since risen by the time Thea wakes, shining brightly through her window over the treetops of the forest that surrounds Queen Manor. She lays in bed for a moment, eyes closed, in that in-between state of not-yet-awake but no longer fully asleep. The bed is comfortable, and her sleep was restful, but it’s the silence that gets to her, and makes her open her eyes.

Queen Manor without Moira Queen isn’t the same, never mind that Moira had never really been the sort of mother to come into Thea’s room and wake her up each morning or yell up the stairs that breakfast was ready. The house seems even larger and emptier these days than usual, even if there is only one less person roaming its halls, and it reminds Thea of the year after the _Queen’s Gambit_ had sunk, before Walter had moved in and brought a little more cheer to the house. She tries not to think about those days too often.

Rolling over, blinking herself awake, she stretches slightly and lets out a yawn. The house is quiet, and she wonders if Oliver is home. Probably not. Either that or he’s still sleeping.

Everyone thinks it’s lack of motivation that has her lying in bed most of the day lately, but they’re wrong. She’s not moping, and she’s certainly not trying to drown her sorrows. (She knows where to turn if she wants to do _that_ , and she’s doing her damnedest to remain sober instead.)

It is anger and frustration that Thea feels, a righteous fury at the thought that her mother could even think of participating in Malcolm Merlyn’s schemes. It’d been just the two of them, supporting each other after losing a father and brother, husband and son – except that had been a lie, apparently, because Moira had known the whole time why Oliver and Robert had died, and her response had been to agree to mass murder.

The problem is now, that anger inside of Thea has no where to go. It surges and swells within her, desperately aching for an outlet. She longs to do _something,_ but the problem is she doesn’t know _what_. What can _she_ do to make up for the atrocities committed by Moira? What does she have to offer to the people of Star City, of the Glades?

Oliver seems to be trying – he’s thrown a couple fundraisers at the very least and made a few public appearances. Thea’s gone along with all his ideas so far, but it isn’t enough. She wants… no, she _needs_ to do more. It doesn’t help that Oliver doesn’t seem to be nearly as angry with their mother as she is. He hasn’t flat out said that he’s forgiven her, but Thea doesn’t know how he can even stand to be in the same room as the woman who raised them. He’s away from the house every night these days, though, so she can’t help but wonder sometimes if he’s coping by moving from one woman to the next.

Pushing aside her blankets and pulling herself to her feet, Thea clenches a fist as she stands. God, she wants to do something, wants an outlet for her frustrations that she can’t find. She grits her teeth and takes a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. Still in her sleepwear, she goes looking for something to eat.

Downstairs seems to be just as deserted as the upstairs halls had been, but there’s a pile of blueberry pancakes in the warmer and Thea happily moves them to a plate, piling on the syrup. No doubt Raisa had left them out for her. Thea has a new-found appreciation for the maid these days and wonders, not of the first time, how to show that.

If she is honest with herself, she’d been a spoilt brat, and maybe she’d had some excuses for that following Oliver’s and her father’s deaths, but the time for excuses is over now. After her community service, after actually going into the Glades and seeing how the poor of Star City live, after most of the staff had quit in the wake of Moira’s news conference, Thea finally recognizes what Raisa does for her – and what she has done over the many years she’s worked for the Queen family.

As thanks, Thea tidies up after herself more than she would have before, rinsing her dishes and placing them in the dishwasher before throwing the leftover pancakes in a Ziploc bag she places in the fridge.

And that’s… that’s where her energy stops. This is where the apparent ‘lack of motivation’ comes in: it’s only just after eleven in the morning and Thea has no plans for the day, nothing to do with herself.

She’d lost a lot of friends from school after her community service (not real friends, she now recognizes) and even more now that they’ve graduated high school. Those few she still keeps in touch with are either off at college, planning their future, or already have their futures all planned out with a whole lot of nothing, content to live on their trust funds and parents’ money for the rest of their lives. Thea hasn’t taken either option and she has no idea of what the future has in store for her.

She doesn’t know what she wants to do with her week, let alone her life, but she knows she needs to find _something_. She heads upstairs instead, collapses on her bed, and pulls up the DVR on her TV, restless and unhappy. Without something to channel it towards, her anger only festers inside her.

* * *

Oliver arrives at Queen Consolidated just after noon, walking through the lobby with Diggle one step back and one step to the left, grinning easily at those he passes. As he moves through the building, making his way to the board meeting, he makes it clear he’d had a late night, from his easy grins to his slightly tousled hair and loose limbs.

It’s partly true, after all – Oliver had stayed up late the previous night, just not for the reasons everyone probably thinks and assumes. After the uncomfortable talk with Tommy (which Oliver is not thinking about right now) he’d known that he wasn’t going to be able to sleep – not real sleep, anyway. He’d finished up his last minute research on the list of CEOs for two hours or so, as he’d planned to do, and then, avoiding the mansion and not wanting anyone to walk in on him, he’d headed for his secondary, back-up base of operations and crashed on the cot there. As he’d expected he’d only gotten an hour or two of sleep before jolting awake to the crack of a gunshot in his memory.

His father had died because Oliver had been there. This is a fact and Tommy’s just too kind to say so. ( _Soft_ , a part of him sneers scornfully, and Oliver squashes the thought down as soon as it appears in his mind, mashes it to a pulp and throws it away. Being kind is not a weakness. And anyway, that’s why he fights – so Tommy and Laurel and Thea and others like them don’t have to.)

(And yet, Tommy wants to _help_ , and Oliver hadn’t been able to tell him no.)

In the conference room, Oliver pulls his mind back to the present with difficulty. “I do own a night club,” he says suggestively to one of the board members, responding to a comment about how tired Oliver looks. He follows it up by clapping the man on the back and tossing a wink in his direction – the smile strains at his face, but he’s pretty sure no one in the room will be able to tell (except probably Diggle).

Roger Springer gives a half-smile in response, a polite nod that’s more acknowledgement than agreement that says he’s not really a fan of Oliver but he’s not willing to risk offending him either. Oliver actually likes Springer – there are far too many members of the board who would have grinned in response or gave some sort of lecherous comment. Out of all the members of the board, Springer is the one who’s opinion Oliver values the most. (Not that he knows that.)

Anyway, Oliver doesn’t intend to stay long. He gives a brief presentation on the six people being considered for CEO and keeps it short and simple, but not overtly lazy or relaxed. He wants to give off a playboy, devil-may-care persona but he also wants to somehow indicate that his mother’s actions are pushing him to be more responsible. It’s a thin line to walk, a difficult act to put on, but Oliver thinks he pulls it off. After his talk he leaves the board to their decision, hoping they’ll ignore the two suggestions that he’d discounted.

He wanders through the halls of Queen Consolidated for a short while after, taking selfies with awestruck employees and throwing out the occasional arrogant comment, but mostly just making his presence known. Assuring the people that he sees them and knows them. He’s far from perfect, and he makes them aware of that, but he’s not going anywhere anytime soon.

* * *

Walter shows up at the manor sometime in the early evening, dragging Thea out for ice cream like she’s thirteen again and adjusting to the new man in the house. Despite her protests, when they actually get there Thea is glad he’s given her a chance to get outside.

She licks her ice cream cone and smiles over at Water and his milkshake (he’d come straight from his new job, apparently, and he’s still in a suit even if he’s taken off the tie and jacket that had gone with it).

“How’re things?” he finally asks her, the two of them sitting at an old wooden picnic table outside the shop, away from the small crowd that has the potential to notice her.

Thea shrugs, soaking in the sun and pointedly not checking to see if anyone is staring at them. “Oh, you know. Fine I guess.” It’s a blatant lie but Walter doesn’t call her out on it. She wonders if he’s going to talk about Moira, but he doesn’t do that either. They sit in silence for a short while instead and Thea finds herself relaxing despite her trepidations.

“How’re you?” she asks eventually.

Walter smiles softly. “Good,” he says, and starts to talk about the bank, and his new job. He gives no hint that he was kidnapped only two months ago, by her mother no less.

Thea listens, letting his accented words wash over her. It’s a sunny July day, she’s eating ice cream, and Walter isn’t pestering her about how she’s handling things. Thea relaxes, and listens, and talks about nothing at all. Her anger settles somewhat and, though she knows it will return later, for now, things are good.

She has Walter drop her off at Roy’s house afterward and, though he looks slightly uncomfortable driving through her boyfriend’s neighborhood, he does as she asks without question. Before she gets out of the car, Thea leans over and kisses him on the cheek.

“Thanks,” she says sincerely.

“Anytime,” he returns with a smile, and she knows he means it wholeheartedly.

When he waits in the driveway until Roy answers the door, waving at her before she disappears beyond it, Thea feels her heart grow inside her chest before she turns her attention back to her boyfriend.

Roy greets her with a distracted kiss, and she knows exactly what’s on his mind. He’s been working on finding the Green Arrow lately. Thea knows this – the truth is he’s been searching since the hooded vigilante had saved his life in March – but she still hasn’t quite reconciled that fact in her mind. Her father is gone, her mother no longer exists in her life, her brother is still struggling to recover from five years alone, her ex-stepfather is still struggling to recover from being kidnapped, and she won’t lose Roy.

She won’t.

Still, Thea has nothing against the Green Arrow, not really. She’s grateful to him, even, for stopping Moira’s plots, and she wishes he had found something sooner, the first time he’d attacked the Queen matriarch. At least _he’s_ doing something to help this city, and she can understand that, and Roy’s drive to do the same.

So, however much she doesn’t want to lose Roy (refuses to lose him too), however much she doesn’t want him to get hurt, Thea helps him sort through news articles and tweets, mapping out the Green Arrow’s activity, discounting sightings that are probably false. She can see the determination in Roy, his underlying anger with the state of the Glades, and it’s an anger she feels herself. She’d probably offer to help the Green Arrow too, if it wasn’t so dangerous, and anyway, this gives her something to do, something to focus her anger on.

* * *

After a quiet dinner with Laurel, just the two of them in their apartment, Tommy leaves and heads out to Verdant for his next shift. It’s a strange schedule he keeps now but he’s (mostly) gotten used to it. It’s only just after eight, not quite yet dark out during these summer months, and he wonders if he’s going to run into Oliver again.

He hasn’t been able to stop thinking about their earlier conversation all day. He can’t put what he’s learned about Robert Queen’s death from his mind. And he can’t help comparing Robert’s death with Malcolm’s. How can he feel grief for his father, when he compares how Malcolm died with how Robert had? So what if his best friend had been the one to deal the death blow?

Time and time again Tommy finds himself pulling himself from the downward spiral his thoughts are heading towards. He forces himself to think of the other things they’d discussed, of his own resolve to help his Oliver save lives. He forces himself to consider the questions he now has, now that he’s actually interested in what it’s like to be the Green Arrow.

Does Oliver go out every night? Tommy isn’t sure, but the question is a welcome distraction. He knows it’s often but surely the man takes a break every few days – weekends at least, or whatever his equivalent may be. On the other hand, this new Oliver has a drive to him, a silent hunger for action that Tommy had seen during the attack after the dinner they’d hosted for the Glades and, even before that, when he’d called Oliver a monster and Oliver hadn’t backed down.

Now that Tommy knows Oliver is, in part, fulfilling his father’s final wish, Oliver’s drive makes even more sense to him. (He wonders what his father’s last wish would have been but he fears he knows the answer to that. Malcolm had died trying to see that wish come true and that thought sends a wave of nausea through Tommy.)

At Verdant, Tommy gets to work managing the bar and, when he tucks into his office to get some virtual paperwork done, he throws up the video feed of the interior side door on his second monitor. There’s no camera on the hidden backdoor that leads straight into Verdant’s basement – an outdoor camera is too dangerous, he supposes, and no one is supposed to know about that hidden door – but there is one at the side entrance to the club. He’s pretty sure the group uses that door more than the other, walking nothing more than a few feet through the club, well away from the bouncing bodies and pounding music, before keying in the passcode that leads downstairs. Otherwise, the small hallway is pretty much unused.

What surprises Tommy though, after he’s been working for a while, is that when the door opens all three of them come in together. There’s no audio with the camera, and the quality isn’t great, but Tommy watches as Oliver holds the door open for Digg and Felicity, a small smile on his face as Felicity talks.

Whatever she’s saying also has Digg grinning in amusement and she doesn’t pause in her conversation as she steps forward and keys in the entry code. Diggle pushes past Felicity in one smooth movement as the light on the door pad glows green, pushing open the door and stepping back to let Felicity and Oliver past.

It’s seamless and automatic, just a small slice of their lives. Grabbing the doors for each other, not pausing in their conversations as they do so… Tommy had known that Oliver has grown close with Diggle and Felicity, knows that the three of them have been doing this together for months now, but he hadn’t realized…

They’re a team, operating flawlessly around each other. He turns off the video feed and stands. The three of them are saving lives, right now, without thought. It’s just who they are now, apparently. He wants to be a part of that. He wants to live that kind of life, knowing he’s doing as much as he can to help others – knowing that he’s nothing like his father.

Without giving himself time to hesitate or doubt his reaction, Tommy exits his office and makes his way past the bar. He hadn’t helped last night, he’d gotten there too late, but Oliver is _his_ best friend, as he’d assured the man that morning. And if Tommy is going to be any sort of best friend at all, then he’s going to help Oliver in his crusade.


	4. A Day in the Life, Part III

_July 19, 2013:_

Screeching beeps, loud and _annoying_ , shocks Felicity from her sleep, her alarm blaring violently in her left ear. She groans into her pillow, burrowing her head further into its comforting softness as she reaches blindly for her phone. Of course she’d turned the volume up last night, thinking it would help her get out of bed. Of _course_ she had. At least her fingers find the phone with only minor groping involved and she’s practiced enough with the device that a swipe of her thumb turns off the obnoxious sound without her even needing to look up.

_At least it’s Friday_ , she can’t help but think groggily. As if the thought will turn Felicity into any more of a morning person or gain her a few more hours of sleep. As if the fact that it’s the end of the work week means anything, given how late she’s taken to staying up most nights, fighting crime on the streets of Star City with the Green Arrow at her side. (Well, not literally, but close enough.)

But the reminder of what they’d done that night does bring a grin to Felicity’s face, still buried into the pillow as she is, and maybe a good mood won’t gain her any extra sleep but it certainly makes getting out of bed easier. _How did my life become this?_ she thinks to herself, half pleased (remembering the lives saved last night) and half regretful (saving lives means she wasn’t _sleeping_ ).

She’s always wanted to help people (deep down, she thinks it’s all anyone ever wants) but she’d always used to imagine doing so with nothing but a computer, like a hacktivist. Of course, Felicity _does_ rely on her computers in the course of helping Oliver, but it’s so much different than anything she could have imagined.

Oliver is just a guy with a bow and arrows (and a seriously messed up island vacation in his past), jumping from rooftops and fighting crime almost single-handedly, with only a few helpful voices in his ear. Felicity’s mostly gotten used to the sheer _strangeness_ of the idea, at the thought that something like that could even work as well as it does, but it’s kind of amazing when she lets herself think about it.

Of course, letting herself think about it means she _isn’t getting out of bed_. The blankets are _very_ comfortable right now and it’s been a long week and Felicity very much does not want to go to her proper job. She won’t mind so much, once she gets there she knows – thank you, promotion – but the _process_ takes way too much effort.

She forces herself out of bed regardless, throwing on her comfy robe to stave off the cold of being out from under the blankets, and starts to get herself ready for work.

She really should think about changing her hours. Especially now that she has a bit more freedom. She almost hadn’t taken the promotion Oliver had offered her, not wanting anyone to think she hadn’t earned it herself, but it’s been so worth it, so far.

Working with Oliver and Diggle has been worth it too.

Tommy had been there too last night, she remembers suddenly, the exact details of the night coming back to her as she moves about. For the first time the lair had almost seemed… dare she say crowded? In a good way, of course – the comforting sort of crowded that comes with familiarity, like stumbling into a room packed with all your closest friends, laughing and having a good time together, and knowing you can join them in an instant. With the three of them there, it’d been easy helping Oliver navigate the streets. Not that it was usually difficult but…

The point is, Felicity had enjoyed Tommy’s company. She’d shown him how to scan the police frequencies, filter 911 calls, and just generally use the assorted equipment and programs she had set up in the lair.

And with Tommy there, she’d gotten to take a break once with Diggle as they’d trained a bit. Maybe that’s why she’s so tired, muscles aching faintly. Felicity doesn’t ever expect to go out in the field the way Oliver and Digg do, but she’s done an ‘undercover’ stint or two and learning a few self-defense moves from Oliver and Diggle can’t hurt, however out of shape she may be.

Tommy had seemed surprised by the lulls in activity. Felicity remembers grinning at him and quipping that if he wanted action twenty-four/seven that he should try to shadow Superman instead. Nights in the Arrow Cave are long stretches of calm punctuated by brief moments of terrifying action. Oliver can’t be everywhere at once and there are some calls he has to ignore based on distance alone, others that simply aren’t worth the effort to get to, with no one actually in any physical danger. And there are other nights – not last night, but sometimes – that are dedicated to nothing but surveillance.

With the whole night before him, Oliver always manages to patrol large swaths of the city, but it is mostly just that: patrol. (There’s a lot of crime in the Glades, but there isn’t _that_ much crime. Besides, someone needs to report it at the moment it’s happening for them to even look into it.)

Felicity doesn’t blame Tommy for never having given the actual process of things much thought. She’d had more time to get used to the idea gradually, she supposed, given that Oliver had been going after Listers mostly when she’d joined up. She’d tried not to make him feel awkward, but he’d clearly been hesitant in the beginning when Felicity and Digg had just relaxed, chatting casually about their lives, what TV shows they were watching, or a story they’d seen in the news. (Oliver had liked to keep the comms clear in the beginning but now Felicity knows he sometimes keeps the connection open when she and Diggle are both there to chat, and he isn’t in the middle of anything, even if he doesn’t usually contribute to the conversation.)

In her little kitchen, dressed and ready for the day (almost, at least), Felicity pops two frozen waffles into her toaster, searching for the syrup in her cupboard.

Tommy’d relaxed eventually though, and they’d spend the last hour (in between two back-to-back mugging attempts and Oliver breaking up a minor tiff between rival gang members) debating Chopped versus Iron Chef: silly, pointless, and relaxing conversation.

But Tommy’d gotten lucky, Felicity muses somewhat morosely: he hadn’t yet been there on a night when Oliver arrived at a crime scene too late, when people got hurt, and lives ruined. And now _she’s_ ruining _her_ Friday morning…

Shaking her head, Felicity pulls her thoughts back to more pleasant topics, carefully plucking the now-hot waffles from her toaster and settling down to breakfast. They’d done good work last night, and it is a Friday, and the weekend is almost here. All cause for celebration. There’s no point in dwelling on the times Team Arrow hasn’t been fast enough.

* * *

Last night someone had slashed the tires on the car he drives Oliver around in – no doubt retaliation against the Queens in general for the attempted massacre in the Glades ( _that’s what you get for putting your nightclub in a bad neighborhood,_ John thinks wryly to himself, though he’s not actually that upset about it) – so Digg’s been forced to spend his early morning arranging things with the mechanic, scheduling maintenance along with the tire change, and getting them to drop it off at Queen Manor when they’re finished. Perks of being a billionaire, he supposes.

It’s not how he’d wanted to spend his morning, but it’s part of the job. Well, technically it’s not his job to see to the _car’s_ upkeep – he doesn’t keep track of any of the other myriad vehicles the Queens have – but since it is the car he drives Oliver around in and he is, technically speaking, Oliver’s bodyguard, John keeps a close eye on it. He’d done the same thing for all his previous clients and he’ll continue the tradition with Oliver. Planting a bomb or anything else in a car while it’s at the mechanics is all too easy and Digg’ll be sure to do a sweep of the thing when they get back. Especially given the recent threats Oliver’s been getting in the mail.

But the nice thing about working as a bodyguard for a guy who needs one only for appearances sakes is that he can do work like this from home, if he wants to. So yeah, he’s spending his morning on the phone with the Queen’s regular mechanic but he’s doing it sitting at Carly’s kitchen table, listening to the sounds of her attempting to give A.J. a bath. (He’s five now, having just finished his first year of school, and in these summer months getting him to stay clean is a challenge.)

Felicity is at work and Oliver is spending more days without him recently, claiming that he doesn’t need Digg’s days as well as his nights, so when John finally does hang up the phone he doesn’t have any more plans for the day until the evening, when he’ll head to the lair (Felicity’s word for the basement) and start his ‘shift’ as Oliver’s bodyguard – or the Green Arrow’s backup, rather.

Pocketing the phone he stands, moving to load the dishwasher with the breakfast dishes that litter the counter. Carly’d made pancakes that morning, and with A.J.’s help the project had become a small mess.

A few minutes later, Andy Junior himself races out of the bathroom, giggling madly as he runs for his bedroom, and his toys.

“No running in the house!” Carly calls out after him, emerging from the bathroom slightly damp, with a grin on her face. The grin dies slightly as she turns from her son to look at John, still in the kitchen. “Everything go alright with the mechanics?” she asks apprehensively. It looks like she wants to say something else, and Digg waits a moment, but she doesn’t.

“Just fine,” he responds. “And that means I am yours for the rest of the day.” At least, until her shift starts in the early afternoon.

Carly grins, but there’s a hesitance to her expression even as she tucks in close to him and gives him a quick kiss. John ignores the stirrings of dread in his gut as he leans into the embrace.

There’s nothing wrong between them. He’s just imagining things.

* * *

Pulling his motorcycle into a parking spot just outside Walter’s apartment, Oliver wonders to himself – not for the first time – if the conversation he’s about to initiate is such a great idea. Who is he to control his sister’s life? Thea has the right to make her own choices and he doesn’t want to force her into anything. But Thea also needs _something_ to do with herself, something to focus the anger that fills her now. Oliver’s seen the listless way she’s been wandering about the manor since the Undertaking, when she’s not out with Roy. There’s a fire in her eyes, and nothing for her to burn.

She hadn’t listened to him when he’d suggested some options. Maybe she’ll listen to Walter.

Yanking off his helmet and noting that Walter’s car is in its typical spot, Oliver does a quick sweep of his surroundings before he heads inside the building. Walter’s apartment is on the third floor and Oliver takes the stairs, striding through the halls with ease. He doesn’t pass anyone on his way besides the receptionist at the front desk, most of the residents of the building probably at work. But though Walter may have taken a position as CFO of Star City National Bank, he’s still adjusting to his return to normal life. He’s not quite yet back to a full-time work schedule yet and Oliver knows he has Fridays off most weeks.

He pauses in front of Walter’s door, second guessing himself for the umpteenth time, but he’s never been one to back down from decisions he’s already made. He knocks.

“Oliver,” Walter says as he opens the door a moment later. His tone is pleasantly surprised.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Oliver says, falling back on the high society manners he’d grown up around. (Even if he hadn’t paid them much attention at the time, Walter manages to bring them out in him in a way his mother never had – has. Maybe it’s knowing how much Walter means to Thea. Maybe it’s just the fact that Walter isn’t, and has never been, his parent.)

“Oh, no, no, of course not,” Walter easily says. “I was just about to head out for some lunch. In fact, you’re welcome to join me.”

With any other businessman or bureaucrat, Oliver would have declined. But this is Walter, who’d helped raised Thea and is still loyal to Robert Queen, long after his death. This is Walter, who’d helped Oliver save Queen Consolidated and is one of the three people who can get Thea out of the house these days. This is Walter, who’s only suffered in this life because Moira thought that that was a fair exchange for keeping him and Thea safe.

This is Walter, who’s been treating Oliver differently since he’s got the barest of ideas of what Oliver went through, but who hasn’t once tried to treat Oliver like he’s fragile as a result.

If Walter is inviting Oliver to lunch, it’s because he would genuinely enjoy Oliver’s company.

“I don’t want to intrude…”

“Nonsense, I was just going to pick up some take-out for myself, this will be much more enjoyable.”

Well, it’s not like he has any plans. “Alright,” Oliver agrees.

“Just let me grab my keys,” Walter says, “and then we can head out.”

Oliver nods in easy agreement, waiting in the hall as Walter heads back into his apartment.

“Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Walter asks, joining Oliver in the hallway a moment later and closing his apartment door behind him.

Oliver hasn’t said anything, but he supposes his reason for being there is obvious. Especially given that he tends to only seek Walter out when he needs the man’s advice. He feels a pang of shame at that thought, at remembering the image of Walter huddled in the cot in his cell, and makes a note to spend more time with the man. He’s trying to be a better friend, after all.

“Thea,” he says, letting none of these thoughts show in his voice. He leads them towards the stairs. (Walter’s stated before that he’s trying to exercise when he can, getting his stamina back up after months practically motionless in a small room, and he’d also admitted on a previous occasion that the elevator is a bit too claustrophobic for him these days.)

Walter shoots him a concerned look. “I just saw her yesterday, is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine,” Oliver says quickly, “I just think she might listen to advice a bit better if it’s coming from you.”

Walter shakes his head. “I think you underestimate how much she looks up to you, Oliver.”

Maybe when she’d been thirteen that had been true, but these days Thea is her own woman. Oliver doesn’t think he’s the strong, protective big brother anymore, not in her eyes. “I’m too… close to all this,” he says as they reach the bottom of the stairs, walking through the lobby to the parking lot outside. “She still hasn’t gone to see… Well, what I’m trying to say is, I want you to talk to Thea. I’m not exactly qualified for that sort of conversation.”

Pausing outside the door, Walter seems to be a bit taken aback by the topic. “You know, it’s never too late to get a degree,” he says absentmindedly as he thinks over the idea.

That’s an idea Oliver doesn’t even need to think about – he’s never learned well in a school environment before and, despite how much being an archer has taught him about patience, he’s pretty sure that he hasn’t changed _that_ much. Besides, he considers himself pretty well rounded, between what he’d learned from Slade and Shado, from ARGUS and the Bratva. He speaks several languages, can take apart most common electronics (like radios) or hot-wire a car. He can fight and he can hunt and he can even garden, a little – though the soil on Lian Yu was pretty rocky.

He knows business and structures and hierarchies from his time in the Bratva. He can administer pretty decent first aid, hack most rudimentary computer systems, and knows how to run searches to find what he wants on most databases. He’d learnt construction in the process of revamping Verdant, and stealth and undercover work and tactics when he’d helped ARGUS. He can pilot smaller planes and he’s not half bad as a cook. Lately, he’s been learning about running a company from Walter.

If there’s knowledge he’ll need in the future, then he’ll learn that too. He doesn’t need a degree to prove what he knows. (And, however much a degree might help him in certain situations, he’s also long since learned the value of being underestimated.)

“You know, I have talk to Thea about college before,” Walter says after a moment of thought as they approach his car.

Oliver folds himself into the passenger’s seat, after setting his motorcycle helmet on the bench behind them, as the other man slips into the driver’s seat.

“Thea’s different now,” he says. “We all are. And she needs _something_. Something to do, something to focus on.”

“And you believe college would help?” Walter asks, scrutinizing Oliver as he turns on the car and shifts it into reverse.

“It might,” Oliver replies. The truth is, he doesn’t know, but… “If she could find a calling, a field that she enjoys…”

“You think it would distract her,” Walter says frankly. “But is a distraction really what she needs right now?”

Oliver shakes his head. “Not a distraction,” he counters, “a mission. Something to strive for, to achieve. A purpose.”

Walter takes a moment to check for traffic in the parking lot before backing out and shifting the car into drive. “A job?” he asks.

Oliver watches the street as they pull up to it, remaining silent until Walter pulls out during a break in the traffic. “Maybe,” he concedes. He hadn’t considered a job – possibly because his mind still sometimes sees Thea as younger than she is, possibly because he’s never really had a regular job himself (Verdant doesn’t count, with the hours he keeps and his lack of a boss), or possibly just because he can’t picture her with that kind of responsibility. But maybe Walter’s on to something. “She did enjoy the work she did with Laurel at CNRI,” he continues after a moment. Still, he’s not sure if it had been the actual work that Thea had become fond of, or just the different environment and the company.

He almost says that he’s not sure if Thea’s ready for a nine-to-five, but part time jobs exist, and hadn’t he just been saying that he wants her to have something that will give her something to do?

“I missed five years of her life Walter,” he admits when the man doesn’t immediately say anything. “You know Thea better than I do right now.” It’s a hard concession to make, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“Again, Oliver,” Walter says, “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. But I agree that she needs something to do with her time. I’ll talk to her.”

Oliver feels a small wave of gratitude wash over him and resolves yet again to spend more time with Walter when he’s not asking for something from the man. He’s glad he decided to take his lunch with him. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

Walter gives him a brief fond smile before turning his attention back to the road. “Anytime, Oliver,” he promises.

* * *

They eat lunch at a small organic restaurant, a quiet out of the way place that doesn’t mind Walter’s request for a booth in the corner. Oliver lets Walter take the seat against the wall, never mind that he doesn’t like having his back to the door (he can handle it; Walter shouldn’t have to). The food is solid and real, mostly fruits and vegetables and whole grains, and the atmosphere is quiet and peaceful.

The conversation is light and easy too, about Queen Consolidated, business terms and tactics. The silences between them aren’t awkward and Oliver can tell that Walter is grateful for company that does not comment on the new idiosyncrasies he’s formed since his kidnapping. (He does worry though, sometimes, about whether or not their similar experiences (however different they truly were) will let Walter see past the masks he wears, and peer at the murderer beneath it all.)

Oliver understands now why Walter Steele had been his father’s best friend, and why Thea is so fond of him. For the first time since returning home, he’s found himself with something of a mentor again.

There are far worse men to learn business from.

* * *

After putting A.J. to bed that night, John rejoins Carly on the couch, where she watches him approach with an apprehensive expression on her face that she can’t fully mask from him, however much she’s attempting to do so.

“Alright,” he says, though he doesn’t want to, “I know you’ve been wanting to talk to me about something. Out with it.” She’s been avoiding his gaze all day, constantly looking like she wants to say something but never actually following through. Hopefully it’s not about anything serious.

Carly hesitates. “It’s just… I know you don’t want to hear it, but…” (his stomach sinks). “Your job is dangerous, John…”

They’ve had this argument before, far too many times. Digg cuts her off before she can go any further. “We’ve talked about this,” he says, trying to remain patient.

“I know, I know, I’m not asking you to quit being a bodyguard,” Carly quickly reassures him. “But… does it have to be for Oliver Queen?”

“What do you mean?” Carly’s never liked his job before, but she’s never really taken offense with any particular individual before – just rich, arrogant jerks as a whole. Is this because of the slashed tires? Or at least, is that what prompted it?

“Oliver’s changing,” John counters without waiting for her response, “he’s not the spoiled brat he was when I started working for him.”

“But he is the largest target in Star City right now!”

“Carly, Oliver’s my friend, and I like my job, and right now he needs my protection. I’m not quitting.” All true, even if Oliver only needs his protection in order to keep his identity secret. With a startled thought, John wonders how Carly would react if she knew that he was moonlighting as the Green Arrow’s partner and comes to the realization that she’ll probably never know.

He can’t think of a single scenario in which he would tell her the truth, ask Oliver if he could share that secret, and what does that say about the future of their relationship?

“John…” Carly hasn’t noticed the sudden turmoil his thoughts are in and she continues her pleas.

Digg just shakes his head. “I’m not quitting Carly.” He stands. “Oliver’s going out tonight and I said I’d be there.” He leans over to kiss her on the cheek before he goes and leaves her sitting in silence as he heads out a full hour before he’d planned to.

He loves Carly, he does, but… maybe not in the right way. Maybe not enough. He can’t ever imagine telling her about the Green Arrow, bringing her into that part of his life, and he needs to spend some time thinking about what that means for their future.

He spends the whole drive to Verdant thinking about it, worry churning in his gut, before he pulls into the parking lot far earlier than he’d intended. Felicity isn’t there yet, but Oliver’s downstairs, getting in a good workout alone. Digg strips off his jacket, throwing it to the side, and nods at Oliver in greeting.

“Got enough juice left for a spar?” he finds himself asking. He’s got some energy to burn off, and he wants to spend some time thinking about nothing except for his next move.

* * *

It’s relatively late at night when Felicity gets to the Arrow cave that night. Oliver has already headed out in his costume when she gets downstairs, and Digg is sitting in her chair, sifting through the police radio waves.

“Sorry I’m late,” she babbles as she reaches the bottom of the steps, even if only Digg’s there to hear her. “I took a nap after work and woke up from _that_ late, and since I hadn’t started dinner yet I decided to just get take-out –” she takes her seat at the computers as Digg offers up her chair seamlessly, not pausing “– but apparently the restaurant forgot where I live, so that took longer than I anticipated–” She pauses abruptly, finally taking in Diggle’s appearance. He’s _very_ sweaty, wearing a tank top that shows off his absolutely massive arms. Damn – she’d missed him sparring with Oliver, hadn’t she?

At least she’s seen that often enough the past six months of her life that her mouth doesn’t spew terribly worded comments about it anymore, at least not without consulting her brain first. (Well, mostly. It helps that Felicity’s arrived after the fact.) “Sorry,” she repeats again.

Digg chuckles, looking amused. “Don’t worry about it,” he says easily. “Oliver’s not on patrol at the moment anyway.”

“Oh, the uh, Culebra gang?” Felicity asks.

Diggle nods. “Oliver’s listening in on a meeting right now. I had the sound playing for a while, but it seems like it’s just a bunch of bottom feeders gathering to trash talk together.”

“Any word on the Bertinelli family?”

The crime family had fallen apart after Helena had ravaged their ranks and her father had been arrested, but they’ve been starting to make a comeback (or attempting to, at least) and there is talk on the streets of a major drug deal between them and the Culebra gang, in an attempt to show that they are still in business.

“Nah, like I said, these guys are pretty low-level.”

Felicity taps through her screens, arranging things how she likes it. She keeps the police radios and 911 calls up on one screen, and double checks that Oliver’s recording is working properly. “We gonna bring them in?” she asks. “Want me to check for warrants?”

Digg shrugs, triple tapping on the comm link in a way that lets Oliver decide whether or not he wants to initiate the conversation. He doesn’t always. If he’s busy, sometimes having a voice in his ear, no matter how helpful, is just a distraction.

But evidently he’s not busy right now, because his voice comes through a second later, all gruff and growly like it usually is when he’s out in the field. “Yeah?”

“Felicity’s here. How’re things going?”

“Wrapping up slowly.”

“Want me to check for warrants?”

“No need – they’re all gonna be spending the night in jail anyway.”

The connection shuts off again, but Felicity is far too used to Oliver’s abrupt sign-offs to let it bother her. She meets Digg’s bemused gaze, rolling her eyes. “Guess they aren’t very nice people,” she says with a grin, and gets to work trying to research which of the Bertinelli’s might have taken over the family business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that wraps up this three parter! Next chapter, chapter five: Secrets Hidden, picks up right where these left off, so that'll actually be posted tomorrow. But then we'll go back to a more random schedule, with one or two weeks between chapters.
> 
> Thanks for reading and let me know what you think so far!


	5. Secrets Hidden

_July 20, 2013:_

Saturday morning dawns unusually gloomy for northern California, with an endless featureless gray sky overhead and no chance of either rain or sun in the forecast. Tommy thinks it’s rather appropriate, given what he and Oliver have agreed to do that day. And considering the fact that he hasn’t told Laurel his plans for the day, in any way, shape, or form. He watches her as they eat breakfast together, wrestling with his conscience. Had he not gotten angry with her, had they not broken up temporarily because of her secrets? And now he’s keeping some of his own. (On Oliver’s behalf, sure, but they’re secrets all the same.)

What kind of boyfriend does that make him?

“Alright, out with it,” Laurel says with a grin, pushing aside her plate. “You’ve been quiet all morning.” She knows something’s up, but she clearly hasn’t caught on to the fact that Tommy’s inner turmoil has to do with her. Otherwise she wouldn’t be grinning at him nearly so fondly.

“I…” No. Tommy looks at his girlfriend’s expectant face and decides he’s not going to be that person, the kind who lets secrets and lies divide them from their loved ones. He knows what that nearly did to him and Oliver, even if he understands why Oliver keeps the secrets he does. “I, uh, need to tell you something. I… I met the Arrow. After, after everything that happened.” He can’t tell her everything – it’s not his secret to give – but he can tell her this, at least.

Laurel looks shocked, the answer clearly nowhere near the realm of what she was expecting him to say. “You… Tommy, he killed your father,” she says softly.

That’s one of the things that Tommy loves about Laurel, she doesn’t dance around him like he’s fragile. Sure she speaks softly and carefully, full of concern, but she doesn’t avoid the truth. (And she still approves of the Arrow, at least mostly he’s pretty sure, but her words don’t hint at that, only consider how he might feel toward the hooded hero.)

“Yeah,” he responds simply, the word heavy, and he thinks again about all that Malcolm had done, and all that he had planned to do. He’s not sure he’ll ever get over loosing his father, but he’s decided (in the days and hours and minutes since speaking with him in Verdant’s basement about his own father’s death) that it’s not Oliver he blames for that anymore – it’s Malcolm himself. “He told me everything though. About what Malcolm had planned – how many people he’d killed. My dad… Malcolm, he was the dark archer, you know. He killed people. And he’d been planning this for a long time.”

It’s not really a revelation – Malcolm had died wearing the archer’s outfit, the news had reported that much at least – but Laurel seems to understand the magnitude of what he’s saying, and what it means. “Tommy…” she says, voice wavering ever so slightly. She reaches across the table and grasps his hand.”

Tommy takes the physical touch gladly, using it to ground him, relishing the feeling of her soft palm against his own. He knows she’s calculating how many people the dark archer had killed in her head for the first time, and wonders if she’s thinking of the hostages that he’d taken around Christmas last year, when the Arrow had been missing for a month afterward.

“I don’t… I don’t blame the Arrow,” Tommy continues, having difficulty finding the words but meaning everything he says. “Not anymore. But… he gave me a way to get in touch with him.” All true, even if Tommy and Laurel have always been able to contact the Green Arrow without knowing it.

Laurel shakes her head in confusion. “Why would you…?”

“The house,” Tommy answers. “Dad – Malcolm… I, uh… I don’t know what he left behind. It… Well, it might…” He hesitates, swallows, and curses his dad again for making him feel this way, for making him not even want to think of him – for leaving him twice, and never letting him ask the questions so desperately bursting inside of him now. “It could be dangerous,” he finishes lamely, because he can’t find the words to say how desperately he doesn’t want to go home alone. Besides, it’s not as if the words aren’t true.

“I’m coming with you.”

Tommy starts, almost drawing his hand back in shock. “What?! No! Laurel did you not just hear me say it would be dangerous?” Because his dad _was_ the dark archer. As much as Tommy doesn’t want to go home alone, he’s also worried about what he may find.

“So? The Arrow will be there, right? I’m not letting you do this alone.”

He hasn’t even told her everything, hasn’t laid out the plan, but apparently he’s told her enough. She knows what his plans are, and she wants to help. He won’t be alone though, not with Oliver there. Still, however many secrets Tommy wants to spill this morning (and has already done so), that one is not his to share.

He hesitates. He’d invited Oliver more as a friend than a protector, not just because he thought there would be something dangerous lying in wait. If that was the case, he might have just asked Laurel if her dad could take a look. So why can’t he do the same for Laurel? (He just has to make sure Oliver knows Laurel is coming, so that he shows up wearing his Green Arrow gear, rather than as himself.)

“Thank you,” Tommy responds warmly, and he leans over and kisses his girlfriend gently. There’s no other answer he can give – none he wants to, at least. He _really_ doesn’t want to return to his childhood home, but with his two best friends at his side (even if they’re keeping secrets from each other), how bad can it possibly be? But he pulls back from the kiss still hesitant, however grateful he is for Laurel’s support. “I… I suggested this weekend. Today, actually. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Laurel looks taken aback, but she nods after a moment. “Alright then, when are we leaving?” she asks, and Tommy loves her all the more for it.

* * *

As Tommy pulls the car up the expansive driveway, a sour look on his face, Laurel spots the Arrow, already waiting for them in front of the house. She’d wondered if he would look different in daylight (even with the thick cloud cover overhead) but he stands under the large overhang at the front door, encased in shadow even now and barely more than a silhouette.

Tommy pulls straight up, parking roughly without care of blocking the driveway, and Laurel gives his hand a quick squeeze as she smiles grimly at him, knowing how hard this must be for him. When she gets out of the car a moment later she finds herself looking around for the Arrow’s transportation, once she knows Tommy’s alright. There’s nothing in sight though, and she wonders if his motorcycle is hidden in the bushes somewhere.

Looking somewhat hesitant at the sight of the vigilante fully kitted out – bow in hand, full quiver on his back – Tommy nods once, mustering his strength, then moves past him to the front door. Laurel keeps herself an appropriate distance from the hooded figure, knowing all the while that he could kill her in an instant if he really wanted to.

Her thoughts about the Green Arrow are complicated. They have been for a while, long before her conversation with Tommy this morning.

“You killed Malcolm,” she says, plainly but low. They’re too far from the front door for Tommy to overhear, or she wouldn’t be speaking.

The vigilante seems to be scrutinizing her under his hood, but he keeps his head tilted in just the right way so as to make peering under it practically impossible.

“Yes,” he answers, just as plain and just as low, the single word echoing oddly through the voice modulator he uses.

An honest answer, at least, though there’s no hint of an apology in his words. If she’s honest with herself, she doesn’t know if she needs one. She’d never liked Malcolm, not even when they were kids really, and he’d tried to kill thousands without reason. He had killed several. But he’d been Tommy’s father too, and for that alone he’d deserved a chance. Even if Tommy’s forgiven this man enough to ask him for help, Laurel’s not sure if she’s there yet.

“Why?” she asks.

The arrow cocks his head ever so slightly, seemingly considering his answer. “It was him or me,” he finally growls after a moment.

It sounds just as honest as his first response, but Laurel has no real way of knowing if it’s true or not. This is a man who can kill so easily, even if he’d seemed to have stopped doing so for a while. What is a lie to him?

Still, as she’d thought to herself only moments ago, her feelings about the vigilante are complicated. He does what the police can’t, goes where they aren’t legally allowed to go, and these days, he does it without killing anyone. But he _is_ a killer, and he’d killed Malcolm, and he’d told her to stay away from him, supposedly to keep her safe. (Shaken by her kidnapping, Laurel hadn’t really argued the point at the time, and she hasn’t spoken with him since.)

But Tommy had asked him – the aloof vigilante, the remorseless killer, the Green Arrow – for a favor, and the man had said ‘okay’. As simple as that, apparently.

Granted, the favor was related to Malcolm Merlyn and the fact that instruments of his plan to level the Glades might still remain in his house, a plan that the Arrow had worked very hard to stop, but even so…

Of course, Laurel thinks terribly for a moment, there is always the possibility that that Green Arrow had agreed to accompany them to keep an eye on Tommy, and to see if there was any chance as to whether or not he would end up like his father, which… No.

No, if that was why the vigilante was here than he wasn’t making it out of the house intact, advanced hand-to-hand combat skills or not. Laurel is here to provide Tommy support and if that support includes fighting the Green Arrow on his behalf – verbally or physically – then she’ll do it, no matter how much the other man’s capacity for violence frightens her.

But she’s getting ahead of herself. Tommy has managed to unlock the door and turn off the alarm, and Laurel lets the Green Arrow proceed her into the house. He has no reason to harm either of them that she can think of, but she’s not turning her back on the vigilante.

“We should, we should search the whole thing, shouldn’t we?” Tommy asks hesitantly once he’s closed the door behind the three of them, looking between her and the vigilante.

That is so not Laurel’s area of expertise. She looks toward the Arrow herself, wondering if the man has a plan.

The hood shakes slightly. “Malcolm wouldn’t leave anything just lying about. Unless you think there’s a possibility of a hidden room or chamber, there’s no point in searching every room.”

Malcolm – does the use of a first name suggest familiarity, or is the Green Arrow just avoiding using his last name because it belongs to Tommy as well? There’s really no way to tell.

“I…” Tommy still looks uncertain. “I really don’t know.”

There’s a desperation in his voice, a hint of hopelessness leaking out. Laurel can’t even imagine what he’s going through (what he and Oliver and Thea are going through). She’d lost some father in her parents after Sara’s death, and their subsequent divorce, lost some of the hero worship that children have for those who raise them, but nothing like this. Her father would never do anything like what Malcolm Merlyn and Moira Queen had been planning, and she knows that for a fact. She shifts, taking a few steps to reach her boyfriend, and grabs his hand reassuringly, uncaring that the Arrow is watching.

The hood only nods, ignoring the emotional display, and pulls out a phone. “I took the liberty of downloading the blueprints.” He hands the phone to Tommy. “Let me know if there’s anything that stands out.”

Tommy sends the man a look that Laurel can’t read but takes the phone without hesitation. He scrolls through the pictures on it, no doubt comparing them to his own mental image of the place. After a few minutes of tense silence – Laurel painfully aware of the Arrow’s presence, motionless beside them – he shakes his head.

“No, there’s… I didn’t see anything.”

The vigilante takes the phone back from him, still unemotional and unreactive. “Are there any vaults?” he asks. “Hidden safes that you know about that the police wouldn’t have been able to find?”

“I…” Tommy starts, “we weren’t that close.”

The Arrow only nods once and doesn’t otherwise move. He seems to be studying Tommy and Laurel tenses, wondering what the hooded vigilante is thinking.

“You don’t have to be here for this,” he says. “It may take a while.”

So they are searching the whole house then, or at least a great deal of it.

Tommy seems to relax slightly at the words. “No,” he says, “no, we’re staying. We should start with his bedroom and office. And then… then maybe the gym, or the garage.”

The Arrow steps back, gesturing for Tommy to lead the way. Laurel lets her hand drop out of her boyfriend’s, clearly indicating to the vigilante that she’ll take up the rear. As much as she doesn’t want to leave Tommy alone at the moment, she’s still not turning her back on the man who now walks silently in front of her.

For the first time, Laurel gets a good look at the man who’d helped saved the city, even if it’s from behind. His uniform is a dark green, flexible and form-fitting, but covered in gadgets and gear. There’s a knife strapped to his right thigh, hanging off his waist, and a brace around his left forearm, covered in smaller throwing arrows, almost like darts. His boots are solid and sturdy, his footfalls silent. His quiver is full, and he wears gloves that eliminate any chance that anyone will ever recover his fingerprints. In fact, the only skin that shows on him is what peaks out from under the hood.

But it’s the bow he has gripped in his left hand that Laurel’s eyes are drawn to. The instrument of his crimes. _Why a bow and arrows?_ she wonders, not for the first time.

She doubts it’s a question she’ll get an answer to anytime soon.

* * *

Tommy and Laurel hadn’t reached Merlyn Manor until just before eleven in the morning. By two they’ve searched the entirety of the second and third floors and found absolutely nothing besides an empty panic room in Malcolm’s bedroom. Oliver knows that the police (and various other agencies) had already had teams searching the entire house, so he’s not expecting to find anything obvious, but Malcolm’s dark archer persona had had a hidden room at Merlyn Global, stocked with weapons and supplies, and Oliver doubts that he wouldn’t have those things equally as well hidden in his own home.

He’s stashed several knives throughout Queen Manor since his own return, after all.

Still. He’s heard Tommy’s stomach grumble twice now and none of them have taken a bathroom break since they’d started. (Laurel doesn’t seem to trust him in the slightest, never giving him the chance to be alone with Tommy. Oliver doesn’t blame her, but he does wish there was some way that it could be otherwise. It never will be though. It’s a miracle Tommy trusts him.) Oliver himself could continue searching for hours if he’d needed to, but Tommy and Laurel don’t have the training he does.

They’re hungry and tired and they’ve spent three hours lifting up paintings and tapping on walls and moving furniture. Oliver pauses as the three of them reach the main landing on the second floor, before they can make their way down to the first.

“You two need a break,” he declares resolutely, knowing that his voice modulator makes him sound harsher than he otherwise would be, and leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be back at four.” And before either of them can say anything he turns, braces his right hand on the railing, and jumps to the first floor below them. Overly dramatic and unnecessary, sure, but out of character it isn’t. Laurel doesn’t know who he is and if Oliver lingers with the two of them they’ll never properly relax – Laurel out of well-earned suspicion and Tommy from the secrets he now has to keep from the one he loves.

He heads straight for the front door when he straightens after his landing, giving them little time to peer over the railing and watch his departure and opening and closing the door loud enough for his two friends to hear. Outside he scales the front façade of the house, hunkering down on the massive balcony overlooking the driveway. He waits there for minutes, until Tommy and Laurel head out, then finally allows himself to relax as he hears the car start, dropping his hood and setting down his bow. He collapses from his crouch into a full-out sitting position, leaning his head back against the wall he’d hidden behind, and listens to the sound of Laurel’s car driving away.

Before he allows himself to relax completely, he takes a moment to consider his surroundings. Just because he’d heard two car doors open and shut doesn’t mean both Tommy and Laurel had actually gotten in the car. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, and listens to his surroundings.

Merlyn Manor, much like Queen Manor, is far from any residences, deep in the woods. He can smell the pine sap around them, and birdsong coupled with the rustling of the leaves in the wind make up the background music. The day is gray and cloudy but still warm. It feels good to be outside, and it feels good to take the hood off and let the wind cut through his hair.

There are no sounds or other indications that there is anyone but him for miles.

Oliver takes another deep breath, flickering through his senses. He drinks in the warm of his skin from his most recent exertions, listens to the beating of his heart inside his chest, smells the paint that’s smeared on his face, tastes the fresh air brought by the summer breeze, and opens his eyes to the sight of Merlyn Manor in front of him.

That had been… Oliver can’t think of the right word. Not challenging, not really, but mentally exhausting, perhaps. Laurel doesn’t trust him as the Green Arrow, and Tommy still gets discomforted by the sight of Oliver wearing the suit. For three hours he’d had to watch every movement he’d made, every word he’d uttered around his two closest friends in the world before the _Gambit_ had sunk. And even with how careful he was, he still can’t help but wonder what Laurel will think of the fact that the Green Arrow had agreed to help Tommy Merlyn.

Tommy had filled him in on what story he’d given Laurel – in person, since Oliver had refused to talk over the phone – but how long will it be before her curiosity gets to her? How long will it take her to start to question why Tommy had need a quick stop to Verdant before heading for the manor?

And even without all that, even without his worries about balancing the Arrow’s identity between what Tommy and Laurel already knew, there was the fact that the Arrow was always meant to be the worst part of him. The monster that could do what normal people should never be able to do. The killer.

The Arrow isn’t that man anymore, not quite, not after saving the city, but there’s still a mindset Oliver enters whenever he puts the suit on, a mindset that lets him lurk in the shadows for hours and torture information out of people who won’t talk and calculate the quickest way to disable someone without killing them. It’s a mindset he can never really turn off, but one that he willingly lets himself enter while wearing the costume.

It’s a mindset he couldn’t let himself enter today. Laurel’s seen too much of that side of him already, and Tommy doesn’t need to see it at all.

It’s difficult, to hold that part of himself back, to keep his words softer and his movements less sudden while he’s wearing the hood.

But Laurel and Tommy aren’t here at the moment, and he doesn’t have to keep the hood on right now. Oliver allows himself another moment to drink in the false wilderness around him, then stands, pulling out the small lunch he’d brought for himself. It’s nothing more than a small bag of nuts and dried fruit, but it’ll energize him slightly and hold off his hunger until he leaves the grounds. He isn’t even really that hungry – the same mindset that allows violence to come easier to him in the suit is also a mindset where he can’t afford to be distracted or take breaks – but he knows the value of taking food when you can get it.

Slightly more relaxed, but still on guard, Oliver heads back into the mansion to do his own searching.

* * *

They find something around six thirty in the garage, after they’ve already searched the entirety of the house. Both Tommy and Oliver seem to remember the area being bigger (though Oliver doesn’t say so) and when they knock carefully on one of the walls it echoes faintly: there’s nothing behind it. It takes a little longer for them to find the catch that opens it though, and Oliver’s thinking about just hitting it with an explosive arrow when Tommy presses down on something and all three of them hear the mechanism click.

Oliver takes a step back immediately, placing himself in front of Tommy and Laurel as he pulls an arrow from his quiver. He nocks it but keeps it aimed downward. He’s not really expecting trouble, but he wouldn’t put it past Malcolm to have laid traps.

There isn’t much on the other side though, just a small work area, kept clean and tidy for the most part, and a locked closet.

Relaxing his bow string, Oliver steps forward, inspecting the work bench first. He doubts the police had found this section of the home, judging myriad objects still present. The drawers don’t hold anything dangerous though, or at least not overtly so, just spare electronics and small tools, scraps of metal and extra nuts and bolts, wires and circuits. There’s a grinder on top that Malcolm could use to sharpen his arrows, but no information about his plans. The closet it is then.

Tommy and Laurel had held themselves back when the wall had first slid open, and they’re still watching Oliver cautiously now, tense and alert (at least for them).

If Oliver had been himself, he might have asked Tommy if he knew the code to unlock the keypad. As it is, he can’t risk that kind of familiarity. Instead he glances over at his friend’s face, and judges from his expression that he had no clue this room was here and has no idea of what might be behind the locked door – or the code to unlock it.

The keypad itself is cheap enough that simply breaking it should open the door – it was just an extra layer of security after all, beyond the massive security that had covered the house while Malcolm had been alive and the hidden wall itself.

“Stand back,” Oliver growls, slipping the arrow he’d pulled out earlier back into his quiver and replacing it with an explosive one with a relatively small charge.

Tommy and Laure take hurried steps backward and Oliver moves fluidly to join them. Once he deems that they’re at a safe distance he turns, aims, and fires.

The explosion is small enough that Oliver’s ears aren’t even ringing when he steps up to the now-broken door, and the object inside the closet is a thousand times more startling than the sparks that had flown anyway that Oliver’s already forgotten the explosion.

It’s a crude device, clearly unfinished, with wires exposed, but there’s no mistaking what it is: a Markov device, fully functional. Oliver stares from beneath his hood, well aware that he’s frozen in place.

He hadn’t thought… hadn’t even stopped to consider… If this device had been used, it would have been his fault. Malcolm’s last words had been about redundancy, he’d used two devices rather than just one, and yet Oliver hadn’t bothered to think that there might be others lying about. Other plans, other contingencies. True, the police had searched his home and office and a few of his other properties, but Oliver should have known better than to underestimate an opponent. He won’t do it again.

“What is that?” Tommy asks after a moment, when Oliver doesn’t move. There’s no fear in his voice, only curiosity. He takes a step forward. But then, how could he know what it is?

Oliver throws up an arm, stopping the other man in his tracks. The device isn’t on, so it’s harmless at the moment, and without being on top of a fault line it’s less effective anyway, but there’s no need to risk anything.

“It’s a prototype,” he says shortly, “of the devices that almost leveled the Glades.”

That gives Tommy pause and, at his other side, out of the corner of his eye, Oliver sees Laurel’s eyes widen.

“Go home,” Oliver continues. “I’ll take care of the device.”

Neither of them move, perhaps too taken aback by the sight of something that had almost killed them – almost killed thousands.

“ _Go_ ,” Oliver orders again, voice harsh through the modulator.

After exchanging apprehensive glances, they do. Oliver stands still and silent the whole time, waiting until their footsteps fade, waiting until he hears Laurel’s car start, and drive away. Only then does he move, approaching the device. He thinks about just blowing it up, shattering it into a million unrecoverable pieces, but the Merlyn garage is perhaps not the best place to do that and he’s not carrying it out of here intact.

But it’s not on, so he doesn’t need Felicity’s help in telling him how to dismantle it. Instead he drops to one knee in front of it, pulls out the small knife he has stashed in his boot, and cuts every wire he can see. It’s a temporary solution – all anyone would have to do to get it operational would simply be to patch or replace the wires – but it _is_ a solution. There’s no way the thing can go off on him now.

Besides, it’s not as if he’s going to let anyone else near the device until it’s in pieces. With care and caution in his movements, Oliver starts to take the wretched thing apart.

* * *

Tommy leaves his old home shell-shocked, stunned by what they had discovered in the garage (and somewhat speechless by Oliver as the Green Arrow as well). There’d been another earthquake device in his childhood home, just hidden away. If his father had told someone else that it was there…

_But we found it first_ , he reminds himself as they pull into the parking garage for Laurel’s apartment building – his and Laurel’s by now, he supposes. It’s even gloomier under the levels of concrete than it is outside under the overcast sky.

Laurel parks the car, turns it off, and pauses for a moment before she glances over at him. “You alright?” she asks.

What can he say to that? He’d just seen evidence of his father’s crimes. He’s just seen the hardened vigilante his best friend had been turned into, by his father. There’s nothing to say but the truth though. “No.” He reaches for her hand. He’s not the only one who’s had a hard day, after all, and Laurel’s got more in store for her tonight.

“I… the Arrow will take care of it,” she says, her voice gaining strength and confidence as she speaks.

Tommy shoots her a look, turning briefly from where he’d been staring out the window at the featureless concrete wall in front of them. “Thought you weren’t too fond of him.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Laurel replies, tone carefully light, “but you saw him. He won’t let it fall into anyone else’s hands.”

For the briefest of seconds, Tommy wonders if Laurel _knows_. Even now, she speaks with such confidence as to Oliver’s actions and intentions while he wears the hood. But no, Tommy would know if Laurel knew, and it isn’t love that colors her tone – it’s respect. Laurel may not be sure of her own feelings towards Star City’s hero, but Tommy can tell that she still approves of him, even if she doesn’t agree with all of his actions.

He nods, swallows. She’s right, of course, but he only knows that because this is _Oliver_ they’re talking about. “Yeah, you’re right.” He gives her a small smile to hide his discomfort with the lies and pulls his hand from hers again, reaching for the car door. “It’s just…” he continues as they both exit the car. “I knew what… what Malcolm had done, but…” It’d never been worry for the disposal of the device that had rattled him, but he can’t tell Laurel that.

“Seeing is believing,” Laurel finishes gently for him.

Tommy nods again, shutting his door and looking at his girlfriend over her car.

“Look, I would offer to cancel my night with Jo, but it’s just… it’s been six months since her brother died…”

He forces another smile on her face. “No, no, you’re late enough as it is. I can’t ask you to do that.” At the trunk of the car, he reaches for her and pulls her into a hug. “Thank you, for being there today.”

Laurel squeezes back tightly, pulling out of the hug to give him a quick kiss. “Anytime,” she promises. “Do you want me to come up or…?”

He shakes his head. “Jo needs you more than I do right now,” he says firmly. And he needs some time to think, so he doesn’t blurt out Oliver’s secret in front of her just from the need to talk to someone about it.

Laurel’s worried eyes scan his face, but she smiles, even if it’s a bit strained. “Thank _you_ ,” she says, squeezing his hand one last time before moving back to the driver’s door.

Tommy stands aside, watching her leave, and sags when the car disappears from view. He _is_ fine, he is, he just… could really use a distraction at the moment. Hanging out in Laurel’s apartment alone doesn’t seem like the best thing for him. But as rattled as he is by the evidence of what his father was capable of, and by the sight of his best friend’s fluid form jumping off a second story balcony or nocking, aiming, and firing an arrow in seconds, Tommy doesn’t really want to discuss any of those things either, for all that he’s bursting inside.

Besides, Oliver (and therefore Felicity and Diggle) are no doubt busy at the moment, and Tommy doesn’t want a distraction that would remind him of either his father or the Green Arrow so, as much as she isn’t involved in those things, visiting Thea at the Queen Manor isn’t really on his top ten list of things to do either.

He’s on the verge of an internal debate as to whether or not to head to the bar down the street when he remembers a promise he’d made to himself. His mother’s clinic, in the Glades. He was going to reopen it, to help the people his father had tried to hurt and honor the life his mother had lived. He hasn’t told anyone yet, maybe because of doubt in his own abilities to actually accomplish that, or maybe because he just wants to surprise them, but, well, it’s time he started working on it. It’s not quite a distraction that avoids thinking about Malcolm, but it fights against everything that his father had apparently stood for and that’ll have to be enough.

* * *

“You found _what_?” Felicity blurts out, startled.

“It was just a prototype,” Oliver clarifies quickly. “But… it looked operational.”

“Malcolm must have been working on it from home,” Diggle says, worried frown on his face. “Did you find anything else?”

Oliver shakes his head. It’s Saturday night but not late yet and the three of them had grabbed some Chinese take-out and brought it down to the foundry for dinner together. (Usually they just eat out together, but Oliver wasn’t willing to wait to tell them what had happened that afternoon and he hadn’t wanted to be overheard either. The others had agreed, though Felicity had firmly instructed them to keep their food away from her computers.)

“Just that.”

“What did you do with it?”

“Tore it to pieces,” Oliver says, with no small amount of satisfaction. “I kept the key components –” he nods at the bag he’d carried them in in “– the rest I scattered in several dumpsters.” There’s no chance that anyone would ever be able to put it back together again.

Felicity looks distastefully over her dinner at the scrapped parts. “We should blow them up,” she suggests, not entirely joking.

“I considered that,” Oliver admits with a small smile, which gets him a laugh from the blonde IT expert and an amused glance from Digg. “Actually,” Oliver continues, “its your birthday Wednesday. How do you feel about a bonfire?”

Felicity throws him a glance. “You’re serious.”

He shrugs. “We’ve got space for it at the manor, and I know you don’t want a huge party.”

“Wednesday’s a weekday,” Felicity counters, “and I’m going out with some friends Friday night to celebrate. But… Saturday would work?”

Oliver nods once, trying not to feel too pleased at her agreement. “Done,” he says. “If you send out the invitations, Digg and I will take care of the rest.” He doesn’t want to pick her party guests, though he’s pretty sure he knows who will be invited. Next to him, Diggle nods in agreement.

Felicity lets out a light laugh, and glances over at the bag of parts again. “We’re really, we’re really going to burn them?”

Maybe she’s doubting fire’s validity as a method of destruction, or maybe she’s just questioning the absurdity of it all. Either way, Oliver shrugs. “What else would we do?” They need to be destroyed, utterly and completely, and Oliver’s pretty sure all three of them will get some enjoyment out of watching the parts burn (and if he’s thinking about Felicity in particular, there’s nothing wrong with trying to make his… his friends happy). Why not make a party out of it as well?

* * *

* * *

_July 27, 2013, early morning:_

“Arrow!” Felicity shouts in alarm, watching as the truck barrels forward, out of the line of sight of the camera and straight toward where Oliver stands.

There’s a tense silence for a moment, Felicity’s heart beating loudly in her ears, and then Oliver’s gruff _“I’m fine”_ comes across the comm link.

“Fine as in ‘the truck didn’t hit me’ or fine as in still conscious?” Felicity asks, a hint of desperation in her tone. “Because I honestly think you would still say you were fine even if you’d broken your leg or something, and–” Diggle shifts into her line of sight, raising his eyebrows expectantly, and Felicity breaks off before she can go into full-on babble mode.

_“The truck missed,”_ Oliver says shortly when she stops speaking, and there’s a hint of amusement in his tone.

It’s very early Saturday morning and Felicity could be in bed right now, relaxing under her warm blankets, fast asleep – instead she’s in the lair, hunched over a keyboard as she worries over a man who rarely strings two sentences together, especially not to tell them how he’s doing – emotionally or physically. _“The truck missed”_ – well, that’s good news, but it doesn’t really give her any more information on Oliver’s state of being, does it?

Felicity takes a deep breath, relaxing. She’d been the one presented with the choice of sleep or crime-fighting and she knows why she’d made the decision she had. She _likes_ helping people, so even though her work friends had taken her out that night for birthday drinks and appetizers, and Oliver and Diggle had told her she hadn’t had to show up, Felicity had monitored her drinks and come anyway.

Hanging out with her other friends had been fun, and was something Felicity hasn’t done recently, too caught up in first finding Walter, then helping the Green Arrow. And the bar had had a pleasant atmosphere (nothing fancy or nightcluby like Verdant, but comfortable), the food and drinks had been good, and the time had passed quickly. But when it had been over, Felicity had told the taxi to take her to Verdant, regardless of the hour and the couple of drinks she’d had in her. The ability to actually help people, in a real and substantial way, is the best gift Felicity can think of – what better way to celebrate her birthday?

She enjoys this, and it isn’t like she isn’t learning to speak ‘Oliver’ either. _“I’m fine”_ and _“The truck missed”_ means that Oliver is mobile but that the thieves are getting away and he isn’t happy about it.

Digg, clearly having come to the same conclusion, leans over the desk and into the microphone. “Do you have a shot?” he asks, and it is only months’ worth of long nights with him and Oliver that means Felicity understands that too: can you hit one of the tires with an arrow, or otherwise stop the truck, Diggle is asking.

She’s already pulling up nearby camera footage searching for the truck. They’ve got it down to a routine now, and she no longer needs any prompting.

_“No,”_ Oliver says, _“plate number is 9TTN561.”_ No doubt he’s already moving for his bike, if he’s not there already.

Felicity switches from the nearby alley cameras to traffic cam footage. “Heading east,” she says, and the three of them get to work.

* * *

* * *

_July 27, 2013, evening:_

Felicity’s birthday party ends up being little more than a simple gathering of the friends she’s made because of her association with him – him and Diggle, Tommy and Laurel, Thea and Roy – but the atmosphere is pleasant, and she seems to be enjoying herself. The food is simple, the fire blazing, the summer night comfortably warm without being stifling, and the company friendly. Oliver had assumed she wouldn’t invite anyone from her daily life – explaining how she’d come to know Oliver Queen would have been interesting – but he hadn’t been completely certain about who else she would invite.

But he and Digg had been givens, Tommy had been an easy invite, and she got along with Laurel – plus if she was inviting Tommy than leaving out Laurel would have been rude. And with the five of them together at Queen Manor, where Thea still lived and Roy often hung out, there was no point in not inviting them as well.

At least, that’s how Felicity explains it to him. “I invited Walter too,” she finishes, “though I didn’t think he would come.”

No, Walter hasn’t set foot on the grounds except for the few occasions he’s come by to pick up Thea. He’s talked vaguely about forgiving Moira with Oliver, now that he knows it was Thea and Oliver the woman had been protecting, but he wants nothing to do with the life he’d once had with her except for the part that had included Thea (and even Oliver).

Oliver smiles down at Felicity. “I’m sure he appreciated the invitation,” he says warmly.

Felicity grins back at him. “You know, Roy’s still looking for you,” she says offhandedly.

Oliver shoots her a look.

“Thea told me. She’s a bit worried about him, honestly. I don’t think he’s going to give up anytime soon.” She pauses. “Maybe we should do something about it.”

Oliver glances down at her again. “You’re not seriously suggesting we drag someone else into this?”

“Drag?” Digg asks, walking up to Oliver’s other side. “Which one of us did you drag into this Oliver? Sure, you surprised us, but you gave all three of us a choice – me, Felicity, _and_ Tommy.”

Oliver shakes his head. “I already knew…”

“Yeah, yeah, you ran your calculations, figured we were trustworthy, but we _chose_ to help you, Oliver. Maybe Felicity’s right, and we should let the kid do the same.”

You don’t have to tell him it’s you,” Felicity offers, “but maybe you should let Roy meet his hero.”

Roy stands next to the bonfire with Thea and Laurel, smiling softly at whatever Thea is saying at the moment. Oliver studies him, evaluates what he knows of the kid, and considers the possibility that he’ll end up ruining his life searching for the Green Arrow. He glances between Felicity and Digg. “Maybe,” he concedes, already starting to plan.

* * *

Laurel and Tommy leave first, because Tommy’s got a shift at Verdant that night, and Thea and Roy head out shortly after that, to do what Oliver doesn’t ask, and then it’s just him and Diggle and Felicity in front of a small bonfire in the backyard of Queen Manor, miles from any other human being.

Oliver fetches the small bag of circuit boards and electronics from where he’d stashed it. He holds it out to Felicity.

“Would you like to do the honors?”

Felicity grins eagerly.

They spend the next hour in front of the fire together, discussing anything but the Green Arrow and related topics, Felicity tossing in pieces of the Markov device as Oliver and Digg keep feeding fuel into the fire to ensure it burns hot.

Together the three of them watch the last remnants of Malcolm’s plans go up in flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6: Honor Your City, will be up in two weeks, on August 3rd. Thanks for following along!


	6. Honor Your City

_August 3, 2013, early morning:_

The night is hot and humid and clear and even the usual criminals are staying off the streets to avoid the August heat wave. But not Roy. He’s still looking for the Green Arrow, and he’s resorted to his old methods to do so: traveling through the darkest and most crime ridden parts of the Glades, hoping to merely come across him by chance.

And then, there’s motion out of the corner of his eye, and Roy turns, and there he is. The Green Arrow. The real one. Just… there.

Roy owes the man so much, and has spent so many months looking for him, that the sight of the hero standing on the fire escape above him is startling, and momentarily steals the breath from his lungs.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” the hero says, voice just loud enough to reach Roy, still using the same voice modulator that he remembers from last time.

Despite all his efforts, Roy hasn’t been able to locate the man in front of him. Instead the Green Arrow has found him, in a backwater alley in the middle of the Glades. _Why_ is a so much more pressing question than _How_ in Roy’s brain, but truthfully neither of those questions are at the forefront of his mind. All he can think of is everything he’s been dying to tell this man for months. He swallows, wets his lips, and draws at every ounce of courage within him.

“I want to help,” he says strongly. If he’s only got one chance at this he’s going to do it right, and that’s the most important thing he has to say.

The hero is silent for a moment. He stands a full story above Roy, making him seem even taller than usual (and Roy knows he’s at least six feet tall as it is), and in the dark shadows of the alley his deep green suit seems to be almost part of the background. He’s silent and motionless and imposing, bow held loosely in his hand, quiver strapped onto his back, but Roy’s not scared, he’s just grateful. Grateful for all the hero has done for him, for his city, and grateful that he’s here now, and that he gets the chance to speak with him.

“You saved my life,” Roy continues in the pause. “I want… I want to help you do the same for others.” He thinks of his neighbors, Robby and Sarah, trapped in a life they don’t deserve. He thinks of Malcolm Merlyn, a madman who’d gotten as far as he had because no one had bothered to stand up to him, because he’d blackmailed and threatened his way into gaining cooperation and support. He thinks of Thea, and the kind of city he wants her to live in.

“There are different ways to help your city,” the hero growls.

Roy doesn’t really care about that – he wants to be out there, with the Arrow, watching his back and saving lives and taking down the idiot criminals who think they run these streets. But he doesn’t want to contradict the man either, not while he’s actually here, not after he’s actually gone to the effort of tracking Roy down and approaching him. “So show me,” he pleads, unable to keep the desperation entirely from his voice. The hero in front of him had given Roy a second chance at life, and he’s using it to be a better neighbor, a better friend, a better boyfriend, but he wants to do more.

No, he _needs_ to do more, needs to give back what was given to him.

The Green Arrow is silent again but to Roy the pause seems considering. Suddenly, the hero shifts, and with one swift movement he’s on the alley floor in front of Roy. Roy flinches backward, not scared, just startled by the speed and the appearance of the Green Arrow directly in front of him.

Pulling something from his pocket, the hero hands it to Roy, who takes it almost without thought, awestruck by everything about the man in front of him.

“I could use ears in the Glades,” the Green Arrow says, and the voice modulator is even more obvious this close to him, the fluidness of his limbs even more discernible. “The Bertinelli family is trying to come back but right now only the Culebra gang will deal with them.”

Roy nods mindlessly – he’s heard the rumors – still largely focused on the larger-than-life man in front of him.

“Stay out of trouble, but pass on any information you hear.”

Roy nods again, and finally looks down at the object he now holds. It’s a phone, sleek and slim and black as the night. The latest model, no doubt, and probably secure as Hell too. “You know,” he says, looking up (the Green Arrow has already started to walk away), “I’m not the only one in the Glades that wants to find you.” And he’s not just talking about criminals who want revenge.

The hero pauses, turning back to (presumably) look at Roy. “No,” he agrees. “But would you have ever given up looking for me?”

Roy looks back down at the phone (his phone, now), considering, and considering what it means that the Green Arrow knew Roy has been looking for him, knows others in the Glades are looking for him, and had approached only Roy. “No,” he says again, firm in his conviction, but when he looks up again the hero is already gone.

* * *

Oliver doesn’t return to the foundry immediately after talking with Roy and handing him the third phone he’s distributed so far (Lance still has the first one, which he’d originally given to Laurel; Superman has the second). It’s only just after two in the morning, after all, and he has plenty of time and energy left to help keep the streets safe. He races across rooftops for a while, just listening to the sounds of his city. He breaks up a bar fight that has made its way into the street just by firing an arrow over the participants’ heads and fires another into the concrete in front of a skittish man who looks like he’s considering pulling off a carjacking. Felicity sends him after a 911 call from a worried pedestrian, but it turns out to be nothing.

All the while, he thinks. Thinks about the people that he’s involved in his crusade, and how the crusade itself has evolved since his return to Star City.

He ends the night after an hour on the roof of one of the shadier bars in the Glades, listening to conversations and hoping for more information about the drug shipment the Bertinelli’s are planning on bringing into town. Instead he hears a lot of complaints about the city, about the state of the Glades. The tremors had scared the entire city, but they’d only really threatened the Glades. And in the end, few people had died. The city has moved on. The Glades haven’t.

Half the buildings haven’t been checked for stability and there is always the chance that one of them might collapse without warning. And though almost no buildings actually did collapse, the items inside were not so fortunate. Businesses are still putting their stores back together, homes are still trying to reconnect plumbing and electrical, to replace the most important broken things and patch together what they don’t have the money to replace.

The Glades have been forgotten, and the people that live there aren’t pleased. Some people are still helping – an alderman named Sebastian Blood is campaigning for Star City’s poorest, Oliver isn’t the only one who’s still donating to help out, and CNRI is still going strong, fighting for those who need it – but the initial efforts have died without fulfilling all of their promises.

Oliver sits, and he listens, and he thinks about what it means to be the city’s protector – the entire city.

He returns to the foundry still thinking and greets Felicity and Diggle absentmindedly as he pulls back his hood and sets down his bow.

Digg narrows his eyes at him. “I thought you didn’t run into any trouble, but you’ve got that look Oliver. What are you thinking?”

He wants expectantly as Oliver considers his answer and Felicity looks just as interested in what he has to say.

“I’m thinking that we can do more to help this city,” Oliver says absently.

Deep in thought, he turns and pulls out his old case from the island, the one that even Amanda Waller had saved for him and the only thing he’d brought back with him. It contains little bits and pieces from all the places he’d traveled to but that isn’t what Oliver’s looking for. Crouching down, he opens the lid and removes the little book of names that had been his sole mission the first eight months he’d been home. He can feel the weight of Diggle’s and Felicity’s eyes on him as he stands.

They haven’t used the List since he’d rescued Walter. It was only three months ago, but it feels like so much longer.

“What are you doing with that?” Felicity asks in the silence that’s fallen.

Oliver turns to face his two companions. “I know we’re doing things differently now, but the people in here – they’ve still failed this city. And the city deserves to see justice done.”

“What were you thinking?” Diggle looks curious, but hesitant.

“Laurel,” Oliver starts. Something in Diggle’s expression tightens; Felicity swallows and looks away. Subtle reactions that they don’t mean to make, and Oliver isn’t meant to see – but how could he not? “Or, at least, the law,” he continues, as though nothing has happened. “I don’t need to put arrows in them if they’re arrested for their crimes.”

They’ve talked about how Oliver keeps involving Laurel, the only civilian who has worked with the Arrow but doesn’t know who he is, but Digg and Felicity don’t know Laurel like he does. Oliver trusts Laurel, knows what she’s capable of. And yeah, there are now five years and her dead sister between them, and Oliver has to remember that, like he did, the people around him have changed, but. Still. Oliver knows Laurel. He trusts her. And he knows she wants to see justice done too.

Besides, they’ve got someone else working with the Arrow now too, and both Diggle and Felicity had been on board about bringing Roy into this without telling him the whole truth. In fact, they’d been the ones to suggest it, and Oliver had only agreed because he’d known that the only person Roy would have listened to about staying out of fights (really listened to, not just the way he’s barely holding himself back for Thea) was the Green Arrow.

“Isn’t… isn’t the whole point of the book that they weren’t arrested? That they were able to get out of it?” Felicity asks hesitantly, visibly ignoring and moving past the Laurel topic. “Like, Malcolm and your dad made it because the people in there kept skirting the law?”

“Yes,” Oliver admits. He looks down at the small book in his hands. “But they were blackmailing the people in here, forcing them to do good for the community – which meant they had evidence of wrongdoing.”

“You want to do the Robin Hood thing again,” Digg states. There’s a touch of skepticism in his tone.

“I don’t want to stop what we’re doing,” Oliver counters, “but we have a list of people who have failed this city and we’re doing nothing with it.”

Felicity purses her lips unhappily at the thought and Diggle shifts where he stands.

“The people in this book live their lives without regard for how many people they hurt. Stopping them still saves lives.”

Felicity stands, stepping toward him and taking the book from his hands. “You’re right,” she says, turning it over in her hands, studying it, before she glances upward to meet his gaze. “These people were just financial backers for the Undertaking, so we disregarded them after it was over, but… nobody in here is very nice, are they?”

“Yeah, but Oliver, it’s a long list,” Digg counters. “Going after them one by one would take years.”

Oliver had been prepared for that, in the beginning, when he’d had no idea of the Undertaking’s existence and had simply returned to Star City to right his father’s wrongs. But he’s got Diggle and Felicity by his side now, and Tommy too sometimes, and now Roy on the streets. He’s trying new ways to help people. They don’t need to spend years going after them one by one. He turns to Felicity. “Can you digitize the List?”

She grins sheepishly. “I already did,” she admits. “I mean, you only had the one book, and I was worried what would happen if it was lost, or destroyed, or…”

Gently, Oliver takes the book back from her, the physical movement pulling her from her ramble. “Good,” he says warmly. “Can we sort it?”

Felicity nods, returning to her seat and spinning to face her computers. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Eliminate anyone we’ve already gone after, and take out anyone who’s already dead or in jail.” Oliver and Diggle move to stand on either side of Felicity, watching as she works.

As she does so, another idea comes to Oliver. “Do we have another copy?” he asks. “Like the book Walter found?”

Felicity hesitates. “I… don’t know,” she admits, “you’d probably have to ask your mother. Why?”

“Because Digg’s right, going after the List one by one would take years. But if we share it…”

“With who?”

Oliver shrugs. “The media, the police. Both.”

“Nobody would be able to arrest anyone on it,” Diggle muses, “but… it might get them thinking.”

Oliver nods. “It’ll get people to take a closer look.”

“And maybe even some of the people on the List will, you know, reconsider things once their names are out in the open.”

Above Felicity’s head, Oliver and Diggle exchange glances. Felicity huffs and rolls her eyes. “I’m not being overly optimistic,” she says. “If people know that they’re on the Green Arrow’s list, they might change a few things in order to avoid an arrow.”

True, Oliver supposes. Fear can be a powerful motivator. “If we can’t find another copy,” he decides, “we’ll e-mail the List to Detective Lance and the Star City Register. They can decide what to do with it.”

“It’d be more authentic if you deliver it yourself,” Digg argues. “Anyone can send an email.”

Oliver considers his point, then nods once.

“Alright, done,” Felicity says, turning from her computers again to glance up at him. “What next?”

“Can you eliminate anyone not in Star City?”

She hesitates. “That… would be harder. A lot of these people have more than one residence. Y’know, being evil rich folks and all.”

“But can you do it?”

Felicity spins around fully in her chair to give Oliver a proper look and he quirks a grin, amused at her affronted expression, and backs off.

“What I meant to say was, how long will it take?” he corrects himself.

“I don’t know, I’ll write an article that can search through the news online and try and figure out where everyone is at the moment. I’ll probably have to edit it as I go, working out the tweaks. Give me a few days.”

“In the meantime?”

“In the meantime, we stick with what we’ve been doing. The Bertinelli’s still have that shipment coming in on the nineteenth and we still don’t know which dock they’re going to use or who’s in charge of the deal on either side.”

“Well,” Diggle says, turning to files of printed out information tacked up on the mobile corkboards spread around the room, “Felicity and I were working on that while you were out. We’ve got a list of all the docks in Star City, and what they’re capable of accommodating…”

Oliver turns to join his friend, and the two of them begin to pass ideas back and forth as Felicity works silently at her computers.

* * *

* * *

_August 4, 2013, afternoon:_

Roy hadn’t been able to sleep after he’d gotten back to his bed Friday night (Saturday morning, technically), not after a visit from the Green Arrow, not after being entrusted with the hero’s phone number and being given instructions to be his ears in the Glades. He’d been too elated, too ecstatic, too frantic with thoughts and plans of how to best support the hero, and to prove that Roy can do more than just pass along the rumors he hears.

Now, over twenty-four hours later, it’s an entirely different feeling that has Roy restless, and wanting to pace: dread. Thea knows about his plans to find the Green Arrow, and his desire to help the man who’d saved his life in more ways than one. She approves, but only grudgingly, only because she knows she can’t stop him.

What she doesn’t approve of is the possibility of losing Roy, and therefore anything that would put Roy in danger. Like an association with the Green Arrow. (It’s the only thing that’s kept him off the streets the past couple of months.)

Roy doesn’t think Thea has anything against the hero himself, especially not after he’d saved the city, she just knows that what he does is dangerous, and she doesn’t want Roy to face that kind of danger.

So the question becomes, now that the Green Arrow has contacted him, should he tell her?

On one hand, working for the hero is bound to be dangerous, and the Green Arrow clearly believes in secrecy, though he hadn’t outright told Roy not to tell anyone. (Roy figured that part was implied.)

On the other hand, he’s not about to go out picking fights and defending the innocent, just listening to rumors. Not to mention that lying to Thea about this when he’s been honest about everything else so far doesn’t quite feel right. She’s supported his efforts up to this point, shouldn’t he tell her that they’ve paid off?

This is his second chance at life, and he wants to do things properly this time around. But he also doesn’t want to lose Thea.

Although… if he doesn’t tell her, and she finds out anyway, then he’ll definitely lose her, won’t he?

She _does_ approve of the Green Arrow, in a general sense, he knows that much, but how will her approval of his actions be negated by the danger Roy is now placing himself in? Does it even matter, when it comes to telling his girlfriend the truth?

He has to tell her, he can’t _not_ tell her, but if she gives him an ultimatum… Roy doesn’t know if he’ll be able to chose between Thea and the hero who had brought him back to her a better man.

* * *

* * *

_August 5, 2013, early afternoon:_

It’s a Monday in early August when Thea finally cracks, typing _star city local colleges_ into the blinking search bar on the laptop in front of her. She’d never really given college much thought in high school – back when her life was nothing more than party after party, the life in between those moments nothing but a blur – and she’d disregarded it entirely after her drug conviction and the fact that her graduation ceremony had occurred right around the time her mother had been arrested for attempted _mass murder_. (Thea hadn’t attended.) Now though, well… Walter’s right, and Oliver’s right, even if she’d never admit it to her brother out loud.

She needs something to keep her busy. Tommy and Oliver have Verdant and managing their parents’ companies, even if Tommy’s just handling the financial aspects of selling Merlyn Global. In the meantime, she’s stuck languishing at the Queen Manor, going out only occasionally with Roy or Laurel or Walter. And yeah, reconnecting with Oliver’s been great, if slow – ever since his attempt to talk about college they’ve been having occasional midafternoon movie marathons, and Thea gets to help him catch up with everything he’d missed, but he’s still gone almost every night, and he’s still got two businesses to run, however much help he gets.

It’s college or a job, and quick frankly Thea’s not sure what kind of employment she’d be suited for. It’s not that she doubts her own skills, but she knows herself well enough to doubt her ability to take orders, or work under someone else. She’s not getting some minimum wage job serving chicken wings or stocking shelves, she doesn’t care how arrogant or entitled that makes her. Besides, who would hire Thea Queen, former drug addict and only daughter of an attempted murderer?

Which leaves… college. Thea’s pretty sure she only passed enough classes to get her high school diploma because of how much Queen money went into that school, but it’s not like she couldn’t have passed those classes on her own, if she’d actually tried. Or been sober enough to pay attention. Or, you know, actually attended every class. Regardless, she could… she could make college work. Not some ivy league or shit like that, but a local community school, maybe online classes… Thea’s pretty sure she could handle that. (She’s not letting her mother’s money get her in anywhere. She’s not.)

She scrolls through the resulting links that pop up after she hits enter, reading the titles but still reluctant to clink on any of them, when the doorbell suddenly interrupts her internal debate. The emotion that floods her at the sound is half relief, half regret, because she’s grateful for the distraction but she knows that putting it off won’t help her in the end. Either way, Oliver had gone into Queen Consolidated for the first of the new CEO interviews and Thea doesn’t know where Raisa or the new maid Emily are at the moment, so she shuts her laptop and heaves herself off her bed.

It’s a workday, which means it’s probably Roy at the door (deliveries go to a different entrance, and while they’ve no longer go guards at the front gate, it’s been long enough that the reporters and the police have stopped making their way to the front door (the reporters sneaking into the property, the police coming with warrant after warrant until she’s pretty sure there’s not a scrap of paper left in her father’s old office, which had become her mother’s rather than Walter’s). Unlike Walter or Laurel, Roy works odd jobs here and there, so his free time is sporadic.

Thea heads downstairs, grin appearing on her face as her brain goes through its reasoning, always pleased to see her boyfriend. Sure enough, it’s Roy at the door, wearing that red hoodie of his that he’s so fond of (though the sleeves are pushed up – it _is_ early afternoon in the beginning of August). Thea takes a moment to admire his forearms (very muscular, she knows for a fact), before she catches sight of the apprehension on his face.

“Roy?” she asks, standing aside to let him in, her own grin dissolving somewhat. “What’s wrong?” She closes the door behind him as he steps into the house and turns to face him properly.

“I… I have to tell you something,” he says, and from the tenseness in his shoulders and his reluctance to meet her eye, it doesn’t seem like good news is coming.

Thea’s worry deepens. “Is everything alright? Did something else happen to your neighbors?”

He quickly shakes his head. “No, no, everything’s fine. It’s just… you know how I’ve been looking for the Green Arrow?”

Roy pauses, studying her expression, and Thea knows what he’s about to say a second before he does.

“I met him, asked if I could help.”

Despite herself, Thea relaxes every so slightly at the news. With the expression on her boyfriend’s face she’d been expecting news of death or injury. What the Green Arrow does is dangerous, but the fact that Roy managed to find him is not necessarily a bad thing – so long as he’s not taking to the streets himself. Let the Green Arrow take the punches and the bullet wounds but keep Roy safe.

“How did you find him?” she finds herself asking. “I thought… none of our plans…?”

Roy shakes his head again. “He found me.”

That… Thea doesn’t know how to feel about that. She’s grateful to the Green Arrow for saving their city – _beyond_ grateful to him for stopping her mom – but she doesn’t want the man anywhere near her friends and family. He’d gone after her mother because she’d been attempting mass murder; she doesn’t want to think about what it would mean if he was keeping tabs on anyone else in her life. But, Roy had been saved by him before. Hopefully that’s the only reason the Green Arrow knows who he is.

“And…?” Thea asks apprehensively. Roy’d only said he’d asked to help, he hadn’t said how the vigilante (hero?) had responded. She doesn’t really think the Green Arrow would ask Roy to fight alongside him, but she has to ask anyway.

Roy takes a step forward, shaking his head again, and reaches his hands up to grasp her shoulders as he looks her in the eyes. “Nothing dangerous,” he promises, voice sincere. “He just asked me to keep an ear out in the Glades. Let him know if I hear anything.”

Gossip and rumors aren’t always safe, but it’s less dangerous than what Roy had been looking for. Thea smiles at her boyfriend and pushes forward, embracing him fully. “Does this mean you’ll stop thinking about hitting the streets yourself?” she asks, face half buried in Roy’s shoulder.

The pause at her question is telling, the Thea pulls back to look him in the face. “I can’t lose you Roy,” she says firmly. “I can’t.”

He grins softly down at her, reaching up with his right hand to push a strand of hair out of her face. “You won’t,” he promises.

After losing her father and brother at the age of twelve, Thea knows better than to believe it’s a promise he has any control over. Besides, he’d never really answered her question.

But it’s enough for now. It has to be. Deep down inside, Thea fears that if she keeps pushing him, she’ll lose him in another way entirely. And as she’d just told him, she can’t do that. She won’t.

She makes her own promise to herself at that, and knows that she can’t control for any outside forces, but she makes it anyway.

She’d lost her father and her brother, then she’d gotten her brother back, and then she’d lost Walter, and she’d gotten him back only to lose her mother.

She’s not losing anyone else. Ever.

* * *

_August 8, 2013, night:_

“We’ve been working on these things as if you were just any other person,” Green Arrow says calmly a few minutes after Clark – Superman – asks if he has time to train tonight, “but you’re not.” His voice is as harsh and rough as it always is, altered by a voice modulator that Clark could listen under if he really wanted to, but hasn’t. He’d considered it – _really_ considered it – back in the beginning, before the hero in front of him had stopped killing, but he chooses instead to respect the man’s privacy and lets the distorted words wash over him.

He can’t help but feel a twinge in his chest at the actual words though. He knows he’s an alien, is reminded of it everyday thanks to the Superman persona he has carefully crafted and painstakingly maintains, and while he wouldn’t give up what he does for anything in the world he’d thought Green Arrow didn’t care about that. (The DEO had. It was part of why Clark had cut ties with them.)

“What do you mean?” he asks, forcing himself to keep his own tone carefully neutral. Without using his enhanced senses too much (as in, listening to his heartbeat every second or zooming in on every minute twitch of his body, which, honestly, is just too much effort) Green Arrow is an incredibly hard man to read. His posture is always perfect, his movements fluid and carefully enhanced, and the hood shadows his face.

“You know how to manage your strength,” Green Arrow continues, “but that doesn’t mean you always have to. You’re stronger than everyone else – there are times when you can take advantage of that.”

Clark loves helping people, and a lot of the times he’s saving people from burning buildings or natural disasters or car wrecks and a lot of the times when he comes across criminals they’re not hard for him to subdue. But he comes across a challenge every now and again, and he has enemies with resources he can barely imagine. These random training sessions with Green Arrow (four now, March and then May and June and now, in August) are something he’s started to look forward too, even if he doesn’t spend too much time on them.

Plus, surprisingly, he enjoys the other hero’s company. Because that’s what Green Arrow’s become: a hero to the people of Star City. He’s harsher and crueler than Clark could ever be – than what Clark is even comfortable with, if he’s being honest with himself – but his end goal is as clear and as pure as Clark’s own. And he’s surprisingly… Clark can’t think of the word. Kind isn’t quite right, and he’s not quite a mentor or a partner. Even compassionate falls short of the mark.

_Empathetic, maybe_ , Clark thinks to himself. He’s patient and understanding with Superman, and the few times they’ve taken on criminals and consoled victims together he’s shifted to be whatever he feels is necessary for the situation: harsh and unforgiving with the worst criminals, stern and foreboding with the desperate criminals, and hesitant and protective with the victims. He knows people, even if he has perhaps a harsher view of them than Clark does.

It’s a relief to know that he’s not singling Superman out because he’s an alien but because he wants Superman to learn to utilize his own unique skill set when he fights. A relief, but not really a surprise. Green Arrow is harsh, sometimes, but he doesn’t seem very judgmental – either with criminals or friends.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Clark responds, making sure to keep up Superman’s confident tone. He can’t let himself forget that Green Arrow is one of the few people who knows that Superman isn’t all he is, that there’s a man with a separate life behind the costume. He’s pretty sure the other hero has no reason to connect Superman with Clark Kent, and he’s also pretty sure he wouldn’t do anything with the information if he did have it, but Clark’s not quite ready for that yet.

Green Arrow shakes his head. “It’s not just your strength. You can fly,” he reminds Clark – as if he needs any reminding.

Clark just quirks an eyebrow questioningly. He’d be the first to admit he doesn’t know the first thing about fighting. (Well, he does _now_.) He’s not quite sure what Green Arrow’s trying to say.

“I’ve shown you how to take your invulnerability into account when fighting,” Green Arrow continues in response to the expression. “But we still need to consider your strength. Your flight.”

Letting go of gravity, Clark allows himself to hover a few feet in the air as he considers what the other hero is saying. Fighting in three dimensions, instead of just two…

“Alright,” he says, grinning and looking forward to it.

There’s a lot he can learn from the evasive hero in front of him and maybe, just maybe, Green Arrow will pick up a few things from him in return.

* * *

* * *

_August 10, 2013, early morning:_

On Saturday, Tommy heads down into the basement of at just after four in the morning, after the business has closed up and his paperwork’s been taken care of. He’s pretty sure Felicity and Diggle both are still around, and that Oliver’s still out on the streets (why else would all three of them still be here?) but though his original excuse for helping out was so that Oliver didn’t have to work alone, he doesn’t mind being downstairs with his best friend’s new friends.

There’s a surprising amount of activity down there sometimes, he’s realized lately, and Felicity and Digg both are easy to talk to.

Sure enough, all three appear to be hard at work: Felicity is on her computers, Diggle is pinning up slips of paper on a corkboard, and the mannequin that holds the Green Arrow’s suit is empty. It’s not as frantic as Tommy had once expected it to be, but he’s since learned how much work goes into what they do – work that has nothing to do with punching people, or putting arrows in them.

“You guys should really get another chair down here,” Tommy says as he descends the steps, knowing that it would take a miracle for Felicity and Diggle to not be aware of his approach. They’re focused, sure, but not _that_ focused.

Digg grins over at him. “I thought you and Felicity were the ones to set this place up?”

Tommy snorts. “Yeah, in a week. Didn’t exactly have time to plan the whole thing out.”

“Add it to the list,” Felicity says offhandedly, not looking up from her computers.

Tommy raises a questioning eyebrow at Diggle. In the beginning, these casual conversations that they toss around while Oliver’s out punching bad guys had startled him, but he’s used to it now after a month of helping out, even if he’s only around twice a week or so.

Diggle points to the wall behind the stairs in answer, were a bulleted list is taped to the concrete, titled _Future Renovations_. “Oliver made the mistake of asking where he was supposed to store his spare knives.”

That gets a laugh out of Tommy, partly because he doesn’t doubt that he and Felicity had missed something in all the chaos but mostly because it’s clear that the three are using the list for their own amusement more than anything else. He can see _Flowerpots_ written in Felicity’s handwriting as the third item on the list, and the last item reads _Hot tub_ in Diggle’s, even if there are a few actually useful items listed.

“Anyone got a pen?”

Diggle tosses him one, which he manages to drop despite the other man’s expert aim, but Tommy scoops it off the floor and adds _Chairs_ to the list. Then, after a moment’s pause, he writes _Windows_ below that. If they’re joking about it, why can’t he?

“So what’s new?” he asks, turning back to Digg and Felicity and joining them properly in the middle of the basement. The last time he’d been down here had been Tuesday night, when Felicity had taken the night off and Diggle had left early. He’s a bit out of the loop, considering it had been last Saturday that he’d actually been down here with anyone else, not just to keep Oliver company and relay 911 calls.

“We’re trying to map out the new structure of the Bertinelli family,” Felicity says, finally looking away from her computers and stretching slightly.

Tommy has no idea of who or what that is, but he assumes it’s some sort of mafia or gang. The name sounds familiar, at least. “Any luck?”

“Yeah,” Digg says. He gestures to the corkboard he stands beside, which has names arranged on it like a pyramid, or maybe an inverted tree, branching off in a variety of directions. “We’ve got most of it figure out, we just have to narrow down who’s bringing in the drugs.”

“How can I help?”

As Diggle hands him some files, explaining what they’re looking for, Felicity turns suddenly, spinning back to her computers as an alert pops up.

“911 call near Mulverne Court,” she says, clearly no longer speaking to them. “That’s two blocks east of your current position.”

_“Got it,”_ Oliver’s voice comes through the open connection, and Tommy hears the roar of his motorcycle in the background before the line disconnects.

What does it say about his life now, that all of this is completely normal, and that he barely even notices the commotion, too focused instead on what Diggle is telling him?

* * *

Almost an hour later, Tommy is in the middle of questioning Diggle on the significance of a particular sentence in an email chain that Felicity had somehow gotten access to when he hears a sound in the distance that jolts him back to reality. He looks up, swallowing, suddenly dry mouthed and light-headed, as the faint sound seems to reverberate through his mind.

Diggle and Felicity freeze too, panic coloring their expressions for the briefest of moments before it’s wiped away by calm efficiency.

“That was an explosion,” Diggle says worriedly, confirming Tommy’s worst fears as the other man moves to lean over Felicity’s shoulder.

She turn on their end of the comm link even as she types rapidly, pulling up news feeds and social media on one of her screens.

“Explosion in the Glades,” she says to all three of them. Tommy can already see a couple of Tweets about it, and the number of 911 calls in one particular area of the Glades has experienced a sudden spike. It’s not far from them.

_“I saw, tell me how to get there,”_ Oliver growls out quickly over the line.

Felicity nods but doesn’t say anything, pulling up a map of the city with a blinking dot that Tommy assumes is Oliver’s current position. She types quickly and an address is highlighted, a path forming between it and Oliver’s moving dot. But she still doesn’t say anything as Oliver continues forward.

The tension of not knowing what happened, of wondering what Oliver is going to find, is overwhelming. Tommy doesn’t understand how Felicity and Digg can be so calm, or why they _aren’t saying anything_. His chest constricts with anxiety, but he can see from the map that the explosion had been nowhere near CNRI, and besides, Laurel should be at home at the moment.

But what about Thea, or her boyfriend Roy? What about everyone else in the Glades? Is it another Undertaking, or just an accidental explosion?

Then: “Next left,” Felicity says shortly, studying the screen intently. A few seconds later, Oliver’s dot veers to the side.

“Second alley on the right, make a left at the dead end,” she says again a moment later, and Tommy gets it.

Oliver’d seen the explosion – he had a general idea of where to go, if not an exact address. Maybe he can even see smoke billowing above the city streets. Felicity’s not telling him how to get there and then letting him go – not overloading his brain with a list of instructions – she’s guiding him as he moves. After a few more tense commands, Oliver’s dot growing ever closer to the highlighted address, Diggle leans over the computer screens, resting his hands on the desk.

“You’re practically there,” he says, taking over for Felicity without comment. “There’s a side alley a few hundred feet ahead you can ditch the bike in.”

_“I see it,”_ Oliver replies, and the connection falls silent again.

Tommy takes a step back and a deep breath, trying not to panic as he wonders what Oliver will find. Maybe he’s not as used to all this as he had thought.

* * *

The explosion had been large but not huge, restricted mostly to one storefront and half the store next to it. The street itself is lined with shops and businesses, the typical one-story storefronts that connect in segments – three businesses in one building, then an alley, before the next two businesses that share brick and mortar, and another alley, and so on. It’s the kind of street with little parking, common with pedestrians – especially given the apartment buildings about half a mile down.

Despite the early hour, there are people about, shocked and stunned by the explosion that had just jolted them from their early morning routines. Oliver pauses for a moment in the shadows of the alley Felicity and Diggle had led him to, taking in the scene, then he moves. He’s never really gone out in the open like this as the Green Arrow, on the ground amongst the ordinary citizens of Star City, but there’s no other way to get into the building to check for survivors and leaving isn’t an option.

Even the injured stop momentarily in their panic and stare as the Green Arrow strides quickly toward the rubble, and Oliver catalogs all of them in his mind as he passes: the dog walker leaning against a particularly large chunk of the concrete of the building, German Shepard nosing her worriedly as she winces and flexes her bleeding leg; the three joggers ten feet away who look like they were hit with only minor debris, all still standing but huddled together and in shock; the bicycler across the street, uninjured and on the phone, probably calling the authorities.

Oliver moves past them all, dismissing their injuries and shock as minor, and drops to one knee next to a man lying unconscious directly in front of the store that had suffered the work of the explosion. He pushes rubble off the man’s legs with his left hand as he searches for a pulse with his right. It’s thready, but it’s there.

He glances over at the building again running calculations in his mind, noting the shifting it’s still undergoing, the small flames flickering just out of sight, the debris and rubble that falls to the ground even now. You’re not supposed to move someone with a neck injury but there’s still the possibility that the building might collapse even further. Besides, he can’t be certain exactly where the man is injured, though at the very least he’s been hit in the head. Which risk is higher?

He considers it for barely more than a second, his mind sharp and lightning fast during this crisis, as he’s been trained to be, but apparently that’s still enough time for the biker to cross the street, kneeling down on the other side of the unconscious man as he stiffens and carefully evaluates her movements.

“Go,” she says quickly, barely looking at him.

Oliver hesitates.

“Go!” she repeats, more forcefully. She shifts, lifting the man’s eyelids as she speaks, still not focusing on the costumed vigilante before her. “I’m a paramedic and I know you want to get inside. Go.”

She’s not a threat. Without bothering to speak Oliver stands fluidly and strides toward the storefront. The door is mangled, and he ducks under the frame, sidestepping debris. The place is dark and sounds empty, even his footsteps echoing hollowly, but there’s a hole in the wall between it and the storefront next to it and lights flicker on the other side.

Oliver’s just pulled out a small flashlight when his comm clicks once, twice, three times in rapid succession: Felicity or Diggle’s way of letting him know they have news, if he’s in a position to hear it. Oliver reaches up to reply with his left hand as he clicks on the flashlight with his right. (He would never leave his bow behind, but it’s strapped to his quiver at the moment to keep his hands free.)

“Yeah?” he growls, keeping the voice synthesizer on in case anyone from outside decides to join the search and overhears his words (even if Oliver knows that he would hear anyone approaching before they got close enough).

_“The explosion hit a building with three storefronts in it, but all the reports are saying it was centered on the store on the left, a barber shop. Good news? Place doesn’t open ‘till nine. It should be empty.”_

“What about the store next to it?” Oliver asks, already stopping his search and moving for it. The barber shop might not actually be empty, but it’s more likely that the store with the lights on will have someone in it, and time is of the essence here.

_“Fitness center,”_ Felicity says after a moment, then her voice turns somber. _“They open at six.”_

If Oliver’s estimating the time right, it’s already sometime after five – close enough to opening that some employees may have already shown up, depending on the store’s policies and opening procedures. He clicks off his flashlight, stowing it into his belt again, and ducks through the opening between the two stores.

It’s clear immediately that the explosion had originated in the barber shop – the far wall of the fitness center is intact, as is the front – but even if the damage is limited to the shared wall between the two companies, it doesn’t mean the fitness center is in good shape.

The wall behind him groans, and more rubble trickles down from the ceiling into the store he’s in now. Small pieces, but Oliver knows that might not last. It’s very likely that the shared wall can no longer hold up the ceiling, and it’s only a matter of time before it collapses. He hurries toward the counter at the back, where any employees are likely to be.

The lights flicker on and off fairly continuously, but there are enough of them, and they are on long enough, for Oliver to still be able to see clearly. And though he’s listening to the sounds of the building around him and part of his attention is focused on the outside, to make sure no one has followed him, he can hear the groans of the person behind the counter quite clearly.

He pushes his way through the swinging door in the counter quite easily, but the counter itself is attached to the shared wall between the fitness center and the barber shop. And at the end of it is a young man, lying on the floor with debris over his leg, clutching at his arm as the wall behind him creaks dangerously. He looks dazed, and in shock, and it takes him a moment to become aware of Oliver’s approach.

When the man does notice him, his eyes widen almost comically and he leans back as much as he’s capable of doing so, pulling at the leg trapped under the rubble in a way that makes him wince in pain. Oliver doesn’t have the time to reassure the man that he’s there to help. He evaluates the situation quickly, and then, almost in one swift movement, shoves the concrete aside and scoops up the man in his arms. (With his quiver, and the man’s injuries, an over-the-shoulder carry is out of the question.)

The man panics, flailing, almost throwing himself out of Oliver’s arms. “Get… get away!” he manages to cough out, pain and fear filling his tone.

Oliver tightens his grip and turns, starting toward the storefront and the street beyond it. “Stay still,” he growls out, pushing his way through the swinging door as he lifts the man slightly to avoid the countertop.

The man freezes at the words, but his panic doesn’t evaporate. “It… it wasn’t me,” he stutters out. “I didn’t do this.”

Striding toward the intact front door, Oliver ignores this too. It’s a strange juxtaposition: the paramedic outside who’d run toward the Green Arrow without hesitation, and urged him to help others, and this young man, frightened because he thinks the Green Arrow is only here to punish those responsible. Oliver’s mind thinks of this briefly, then pushes it aside to consider later. He uses his back to open the fitness center’s door – it pushes open from the inside, thankfully – and steps back into the cool morning air.

Sirens wail in the distance, growing ever closer. There are more bystanders now, and most of them stop whatever they’re doing, or whatever conversation they’re having, to stare at him as the Green Arrow exits the building with a man in his arms. Oliver wants to fidget under the attention (all the potential threats he _can’t_ evaluate) but he holds himself still and sweeps his eyes over his surroundings, zeroing in on the two other injured individuals. The paramedic has evidently moved the unconscious man further from the buildings, next to the injured dog walker.

Striding quickly toward him, pointedly ignoring the stares, he sets his burden next to the others, the young man trembling but silent in his arms. Standing, his gaze flickers back toward the buildings, which aren’t any closer or further from collapsing than they had been a minute ago, and then towards the street. The sirens are almost here, and Oliver debates whether or not he should let the firemen handle the rest.

It’s what they’re trained for, after all, and while some of them might adopt the paramedic’s attitude, they can’t afford to spend time facing off with him, or doubting him, when they could be saving lives. Besides, he doesn’t think there’s anyone left inside, though he can’t be certain. It’s probably safer for everyone involved, he calculates, if he leaves now.

Evaluating the crowd and his surroundings, he strides quickly toward the nearest alleyway before anyone can decide to approach him. Ducking into the shadows he quickly uses a fire escape to make his way upward. A few particularly brave people drift slightly in his direction, but none of them think to look up, and by that time he’s well hidden on the rooftop.

They’ll tell the police which direction he’d gone for sure, but for now he’s got some time. Oliver finds, then settles onto the roof top of the tallest building in the area just as the ambulances and fire trucks pull up.

* * *

“We have to find out who did this.” Tommy looks panicked, very close to freaking out, and his first words to Oliver when he returns to the foundry after the explosion only increase Oliver’s worry for how his best friend is handling things.

He pulls his hood down and carefully shakes his head. “I’m not sure anyone did,” he counters lightly.

“The place that got hit the worst was empty,” Digg agrees, also speaking calmly. “An attacker would have known that.”

Oliver’s gaze flickers between Diggle and Felicity, both of whom look him in the eye with understanding on their own faces. It seemed as thought they’d both noticed Tommy’s rising panic, but this must have been the first Tommy had actually said anything about it.

“It could have been a gas leak explosion,” Felicity offers, and Tommy’s too out of it to realize her words are pretty much only directed at him.

Oliver gives his friends glances, and Diggle steps forward, clapping Tommy on the shoulder. “Let’s let the police handle it for now,” he says. “In the meantime, it’s almost six and Carly and I are taking AJ to the zoo before school starts back up again.” He nods at Oliver, waves briefly to Felicity, and makes his way to the stairs.

“Well, I need to get some sleep,” Felicity declares strongly. She gives Oliver a look as she follows Digg up the stairs and Oliver doesn’t need words to know she’s telling him to take care of Tommy. He nods subtly in response and watches the two leave.

When the door shuts behind them, he turns to Tommy. “Breakfast?” he suggests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7: On the Edge, will be posted August 10th.


	7. On the Edge

 

_August 10, 2013, night:_

“Do we really think this was a gas leak?” Felicity asks that night, as the three of them make their way to Verdant’s basement after a day of relaxing and trying not to think about what had happened that morning. (Oliver doesn’t think any of them succeeded on that front.)

He frowns. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Digg’s right – if they were targeting an individual, they would have known the store was closed, but… something feels off.” The thing is, Oliver knows the streets of his city. He’s learned them backward and forward, inside and out. He knows the bad neighborhoods and the good, the tallest buildings in any particular area, the alleys he can cut through that don’t show up on most maps (except the ones Felicity has put together). “The neighborhood the explosion happened in,” he says out loud, getting his thoughts together, “it’s got the most run-down firehouse in the city. They’ve had some issues with funding – shoddy construction of the building itself and bad equipment. Not enough personnel.”

“Which means…?” Felicity asks slowly.

“It means that the explosion happened to occur in the neighborhood that would have the slowest reaction time by the authorities,” Diggle says, finishing Oliver’s thoughts for him.

“Could be a coincidence,” Oliver admits, but he knows his own tone isn’t very convinced. He shakes his head. “You two stay on the Bertinelli family,” he decides, “I’ll talk to Lance, see what the police have managed to find out about the explosion.”

Diggle nods, Felicity spins back to her computers with a determined look on her face, and Oliver goes to put on the hood.

* * *

The preliminary police report Oliver gets from Lance backs up Felicity’s idea – that the explosion had been nothing more than a gas leak. It’s only a preliminary report, of course, and there’s still more investigative work to be done, but Lance freely admits to the Green Arrow that they aren’t treating the explosion as an attack. (He only knows so much about the case because Oliver was seen there, and he’s the SCPD’s prime consultant when it comes to vigilante activity. Him and his taskforce, now.)

Oliver, though, isn’t quite so convinced. He’s not quite doubting the report, or the police’s investigation, but there’s too many small facts – the time of the explosion, the location of it – that have his paranoia flying high. But it might just be his paranoia, and he knows it, so he doesn’t mention anything to the detective.

He’ll investigate on his own time (between managing Queen Consolidated and Verdant and his routine patrols and the investigation into the Bertinelli-Culebra drug deal and the List and his mother’s upcoming trial and… well, he’s busy, to put it shortly – he doesn’t have much time to spend chasing down what might end up being nothing after all).

Police information obtained, Oliver heads down to the waterfront to get a feel for the three possible docks that the three of them had determined the drugs would likely come in to. He spends a little time scoping them out and getting the lay of the land, and then, as the night draws to a close, Oliver starts to think about the decision he’d made a week ago.

Felicity and Digg are handling the Bertinelli’s for the moment, which gives him a small amount of free time. And maybe between the explosion and the drug deal he shouldn’t be thinking so much about the List, but those on it have still failed Star City, and Felicity’s algorithm had finished compiling the names of those currently in town two days ago. She’d even gone so far as to sort them in terms of ‘badness’ (her word, not Oliver’s).

He clicks on the comm link.

_“Yeah?”_

“Do we have a current address for Joseph Corng?” Oliver asks, knowing the answer is yes and really meaning, what is it?

There’s a pause, and Oliver isn’t sure if that means that Felicity and Diggle are still reluctant about going after those on the List, or if Felicity’s simply switching tasks and working to find him the information he’d asked for. It doesn’t really matter to him either way. After a moment, she recites the man’s home address, followed up by his business just for the heck of it.

Oliver’s not about to go after the man just yet, but he’s got to start his surveillance sometime and right now he’s got a few free hours before he hangs the hood back up.

* * *

* * *

_August 13, 2013, late night:_

Three days later, the Green Arrow corners Corng outside his office, in an empty parking garage as the man starts to head home (or, more likely, given Oliver’s recent surveillance, the apartment he’d rented to keep his mistress a secret from his wife).

He steps out from the shadows like a shadow himself, dark and unseen until he’s right in front of Corng’s face. He has an arrow already nocked, aimed directly at the criminal’s center of mass. (He doesn’t intend to kill, hasn’t for a long time, but he can switch his aim in an instant and first impressions matter.)

“Joseph Corng!” he growls out, loud and angry and threatening. He pours his frustrations with the city’s ills into his voice. “You have failed this city!”

Corng gapes, frozen, terrified. “I… no, no…”

The man blusters and fumbles, taking a step backward before lifting his chin in an attempt at bravery. “I… I heard you stopped killing,” he manages to say, voice gaining strength with every word.

Oliver matches Corng’s step backward with a menacing step forward, tightening his bow string ever so slightly as he adjusts his aim from the man’s chest to his face. “Only because no one has been stupid enough to get in my way,” he snarls through the synthesizer. “Would you like to be the exception?”

If possible, the man’s face pales even further. Let him think that the only reason there are no more dead bodies is because everyone gave into Oliver’s demands. It’s not remotely true, but it’s a good reputation to cultivate, even if it will only work for so long.

“I… I…” Corng stammers again, shaking his head desperately. He’s trembling, but Oliver has no sympathy for the man in front of him.

At the very least though, despite how corrupt of a man Corng is, Oliver knows he’s not the type to get his hands dirty. Apparently, that means that he can’t handle being threatened very well – or maybe the Green Arrow’s just that frightening, to people like Corng. Either way, it doesn’t look like this guy needs any torturing to be convinced. (It could be an act, and Oliver considers that, evaluates the man’s behavior and his body language, comparing it to what he knows about Corng, but his gut tells him that the man is genuinely terrified.)

“You’re going to turn yourself in to the police,” he growls out, not easing up on the bowstring and not bothering to rattle off the man’s list of crimes. Corng knows what he did. “You’re going to confess to everything. If you don’t…” He lets Corng’s imagination fill in the rest of the threat, firing his arrow after a quick adjustment of his aim.

Corng flinches, glancing behind him as the arrow flies past his head, and by the time he turns again Oliver’s disappeared from his sight. When the man gets home, there will be an arrow waiting for him, embedded in his front door. (And if he heads for his apartment on the side instead, he’ll find an arrow waiting there as well.)

(Oliver will collect the arrow he’d fired into the parking garage though – there’s no point in wasting it or leaving evidence behind. He can always resharpen the arrowhead or replace it entirely, so long as the shaft wasn’t damaged.)

* * *

“One down, five hundred more to go?” Diggle asks with a sarcastic quirk of his lips when Oliver returns to the foundry.

He pulls down his hood, throwing an unimpressed glance in his friend’s direction. “Something like that,” he ends up saying in reply, allowing a small amount of humor into his own words. He knows Digg’s only joking. (Hopes he is, at least, but there’s always the possibility that Felicity and Diggle genuinely don’t agree with him going after those on the List once more. ( _Don’t be stupid_ , he chides himself at the thought, _neither of them is afraid to let you know when they disagree with you_.))

At the computers, Felicity is watching the two of them with her own small smile. Her hair’s up in its usual ponytail and she’s wearing bright red lipstick with a purple blouse, the only burst of color in the basement. Oliver turns toward her.

“Do we have everything on the flash drives?” he asks.

She nods. “Yep,” she says, popping the ‘p’, tone as cheerful as always. “And, I picked out a reporter at the _Register_ for you – get this, she’s Lois Lane’s _cousin_.”

Lois Lane isn’t quite a household name yet, but anyone who’s paid attention to current events in the past few years would recognize it – she got the first exclusive on Superman, after all, and though she hasn’t yet taken credit for it, she’d been the first to use the name “Green Arrow” in print.

Oliver raises an eyebrow at the blonde IT wizard. “I take it that information _wasn’t_ on her profile page?”

Felicity doesn’t bother to blush, just grins happily and points at Oliver. “And a point for the Green Arrow!” she says.

At that, Oliver quirks a real grin himself, and Diggle chuckles.

“Thank you,” Oliver says, scooping up the three flash drives on the table next to Felicity’s computers.

He thinks he’ll go to Laurel first, then Lance and the news, but before he meets with Laurel as the Green Arrow again for the first time in months, there’s someone else he needs to talk to.

* * *

Tommy is upstairs, working at the moment, so Oliver exits into the alley, climbs the wall, and slips in through the window in Tommy’s office. It’s entirely unnecessary, of course, but he can’t walk through the club dressed as he is now and he doesn’t really want to take off the suit only to put it back on again after his talk with Tommy. Besides, if his entrance and appearance are a reminder of who he is now, then all the better for it. He isn’t approaching Tommy just to chat.

His friend isn’t in his office when Oliver enters, but he only has to wait around fifteen minutes or so before Tommy finally heads upstairs. (Child’s play, for Oliver.)

Tommy flinches when Oliver moves from the shadows, hand going to his heart in shock before he realizes who’s in front of him. “Jesus, Oliver!” he exclaims, though he’s not shouting at least. “You don’t have to scare me like that – I already know who you are!”

“Which is why I’m not wearing the hood,” Oliver agrees calmly, but his gaze flickers up and down Tommy’s form, assessing how well his friend truly is okay with this.

“I take it you weren’t waiting up here to talk about Verdant?” Tommy asks with a casual ease he never would have displayed even a month ago. He certainly seems to have genuinely grown comfortable with Oliver’s activities, though Oliver knows he’s not completely fine with everything he does.

“No,” Oliver agrees again. “I’m here to talk about the List.”

“The list? You mean that thing our dads put together – the criminal one-percenters or whatever?”

Oliver nods and Tommy frowns.

“What does that have to do with me?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Oliver says plainly. “But I’m going to share it with the city.”

Tommy blinks, taking a moment to process the news. “Good,” he says. “That way everyone can see what kind of people they are.”

“Exactly,” Oliver says. “I was thinking a reporter, the police, and…” he pauses, gives Tommy a considering look, “a lawyer.”

* * *

There is a pregnant pause after Oliver’s last word, but it doesn’t take long for Tommy to put the pieces together. “Laurel,” he says plainly, and there is neither approval nor disapproval in his tone. He doesn’t know how he feels about that, needs time to process that idea: Laurel, working with the Green Arrow again. He has a feeling it’s time he doesn’t have. Oliver’s already made his decision.

On one hand, everything she’d done with the Arrow in the past had been ten times more dangerous than anything Tommy has done so far (excepting when that crazy chick had held him hostage). On the other, now Tommy knows who the Green Arrow is, and how far the hero is willing to go to protect Laurel.

(Oliver still loves her, he knows, but he’s almost certain (almost) that it’s a different kind of love than before. No less strong, but he’s confident that Oliver won’t do anything to jeopardize Tommy’s relationship. And he knows that while Laurel still has lingering feelings for Oliver, she’s a hundred percent committed to her relationship with him.)

“I’m not asking for your permission, Tommy,” Oliver continues in the silence. “I’m letting you know, as someone who loves Laurel. It’s her choice, and her decision to make if she wants to cooperate with the Arrow again.”

Oliver speaks gently but firmly, and Tommy is reminded of a memory that had happened while they’d still thought Oliver dead.

He and Laurel had been in the middle of one of their ‘on’ periods in their off-and-on-again relationship, and they’d gone to a club and had a few drinks together. Tommy had been an idiot back then, and when another drunk idiot had made a pass at her, Tommy had stood between them and declared Laurel _his_. Laurel had punched the other guy in the gut, and then angrily told Tommy that “People can’t own other people, I don’t belong to anyone.” (That had ended their tentative relationship rather quickly that time around.)

Laurel is her own woman, even if she’s Tommy’s girlfriend, and as upset as Tommy had been the first time he’d found out she was working with the Arrow, she can make her own decisions. Besides, Tommy doesn’t hate the man in the hood anymore, and he knows Oliver will do everything in his power to ensure that Laurel doesn’t get hurt under his watch.

Despite his inner turmoil about the decision, he nods. “Thanks for letting me know.” Because, while it’s nothing personal, Oliver’s _talking_ to him again. He’s telling him his plans, keeping him up to date on the Arrow’s activities.

It only makes what Tommy plans to say next harder.

Oliver moves to leave, but Tommy stops him. Oliver’s words and actions have only brought to the surface thoughts that have been plaguing Tommy since the three of them had searched Merlyn Manor together, thoughts that had struck him hard after the explosion in the Glades.

He’d had breakfast with Oliver that morning, which had helped calm him down, and the explosion had reportedly been nothing but a gas leak, but that hadn’t changed the fact that he’d gone home that day to Laurel and hadn’t been able to tell her a thing about what had happened.

“About… about Laurel though. I can’t… I can’t keep lying to her like this Oliver, about where I am every night I come home late.” She’s sleeping, most nights, but that doesn’t change the number of times he’s lied to her the past month.

Oliver stands in the shadows expectantly, listening, clearly waiting for Tommy to continue, and doesn’t say anything. (He doesn’t even look upset, and Tommy is thrown once again by how much he doesn’t understand his best friend anymore, however much he wants to.)

“I… I still want to help,” he continues. “I’ll keep coming down to the basement, and I’ll work with Felicity and Digg, but only during working hours. I want to be a part of your life, Oliver, but I can’t… This isn’t me. I can’t… I can’t keep secrets like you can.” That had been a part of what had haunted him, back when he’d thought Oliver was nothing more than a murderer – that nobody else could see it, nobody could recognize the danger they were in. He knows better now, knows Oliver’s not really a threat to most people, and understands why Oliver keeps the secrets he does, but lying to Laurel… Tommy’s not sure how much longer he can keep it up.

He’d never been one for secrets. But he tries to make sure he doesn’t sound accusing, tries to make it clear that he’s not blaming Oliver for his secrets, and that he doesn’t intend on spilling the secrets he’s been given he just… Working in the basement has been surprisingly fine, he’s been startled to realize, and he intends to keep poking his head down there – it’s going home afterward that’s started to be the struggle for him.

Oliver only nods once. “Alright,” he says simply.

Tommy hadn’t exactly expected Oliver to offer to tell Laurel, but he’d expected more of a reaction. Maybe disapproval, or even disappointment. But Oliver’s face is carefully blank.

Tommy echoes his friend’s nod. “Alright,” he repeats awkwardly, and watches Oliver walk away from him. Just when they were getting closer once more, Tommy had had to go and drive a wedge between them. (And of course it’s Laurel that comes between them. It’s always been Laurel.)

* * *

* * *

_August 16, 2013, night:_

Oliver goes to CNRI each night the next few days, between his patrols of the Glades, searching for an opportune moment to talk to Laurel while he’s wearing the hood. Eventually, she has a late night, walking out sometime after ten to find the Green Arrow waiting for her in the shadows behind her car.

“What do you want?” Laurel asks, after she gets over her initial shock. Her tone isn’t demanding, but nor is it entirely friendly.

In return, Oliver holds out a flash drive. After a moment’s pause, she takes it.

“What is this?”

“It’s a list, put together by Malcolm Merlyn.”

Laurel’s eyes widen, her gaze shifting from the flash drive in her hand back to him.

“The people on it didn’t know about Merlyn’s plan to level the Glades, but he used their corruption and their wrongdoing to blackmail them into supporting him in whatever way he needed,” Oliver continues. “Everyone on there has failed this city.”

There’s a pause after his little speech, Laurel’s gaze considering. Oliver can only imagine she’s picturing everything she could do with such a list. “Why give it to me?” she asks after a moment.

“Because I know you’ll do whatever you can to help the people of this city,” Oliver says plainly in the Green Arrow’s gruff tones. “I’ll be giving copies to the police too, and the Star City Register. Whether or not they choose to publish it is up to them. What you do with it is up to you.”

He gives her another moment as her brain cycles through all the information he’s dumped on her, then holds out a second object. Laurel takes that as well, staring down at the sleek black phone that is identical to the first one she’d once had.

“Helping me is dangerous,” Oliver says. “If you don’t want it, destroy it.” The first time he’d told her to stay away, he hadn’t given her a choice. Now he has. It’s up to her whether or not she wants to stay in contact.

When she glances down at the phone in her hands, clearly thinking, he moves. By the time she looks up again, he’s out of sight.

She stands there for a moment longer, then tucks the flash drive and phone into her purse and finally gets into her car. Oliver watches her leave, wondering if he’s done the right thing, wondering if he should be involving Laurel (and Tommy, too) in his evolved crusade. But he’s got two more stops to make before the night ends, so he doesn’t linger.

He leaves a second copy of the List on the desk of the reporter that Felicity had found, known for publishing the truth, no matter the consequences, with a note that explains what it is (and more information besides that inside it), then he tracks down Detective Lance.

* * *

“You know, I’ve got a whole other job that doesn’t involve you?” Lance says gruffly as he accepts the flash drive. “I’m not your errand boy.”

“Who else would you suggest I give this too?” Oliver dismisses skeptically, ignoring the detective’s complaints with long practice. He knows that Lance remembers perfectly well when Laurel had been kidnapped by Cyrus Vanch, and the mole in the department that had helped the criminal. Who was to say that there weren’t more corrupt cops now?

Lance sighs. “I know, I know, you don’t trust anyone – but this vigilante taskforce I’ve been put in charge of? There are some good cops on it, even some nuts who actually look up to you.”

Oliver pauses before he leaves. Lance isn’t on duty every night, and as much as he’s reluctant to trust any other member of the SCPD, it would help to have someone else who, at the very least, could book the perps he apprehends when Lance isn’t around.

“Anyone in particular?”

Lance raises an eyebrow, as if he hadn’t thought that the Arrow would have actually given in to his suggestion. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, actually. Look up Emily Hwang when you get the chance. Rookie cop, but she knows what she’s doing.”

Nodding once, Oliver turns and disappears into the shadows, committing the name to memory. Lance just stands there as he leaves, and Oliver still can’t help the small twinge of amazement at the fact that the detective has stopped chasing after him.

* * *

* * *

_August 17, 2013:_

The headline the next morning is in all caps, on both the physical newspaper and the Star City Register’s website. It reads _MERLYN’s BLACK BOOK_ , and it’s all the city seems to be able to talk about. Both articles are identical, neither revealing the entire list of names, but the article goes into detail about every person targeted by the Green Arrow so far whose name is also on the List, as well as the purpose behind the List’s creation.

There’s a hashtag trending on Twitter and a Facebook page dedicated solely to speculation on who else might be on it. (Felicity tells Oliver this in a text (well, multiple texts), because as much as working for ARGUS gave him access to all the best cell phones, he still struggles with certain social media sites sometimes. (YouTube and Facebook and Twitter had all existed, when the _Gambit_ had sunk, but they’d been in their fledgling stages, much less popular than they are now. And that’s not even touching on all the apps for smart phones these days, or Instagram or Snapchat or others like them.)

Oliver skims through the news article, then turns on the TV news.

_“…find out which of the four will become Queen Consolidated’s new CEO, won’t we?”_ the newswoman is finishing. _“In other news, the Star City Register reportedly received a list of names last night, supposedly from the city’s own Green Arrow, a list of names that was purportedly compiled by none other than Malcolm Merlyn, former architect of a plan that would have leveled half of Star City, if not for the intervention of the Green Arrow and Superman.”_

They talk about the List for the next half hour, debating the truth of its existence, its authenticity, and wondering at the names that might be on it (though they are careful not to mention anyone in particular as they speculate). They mention Adam Hunt and Jason Brodeur, Ted Gaynor and Nelson Ravich – people the Green Arrow had already targeted, those Malcolm had killed, but they don’t reveal any of the other names on the List, don’t discuss the people who continue to fail Star City every day – people who need to be stopped.

Oliver understands that slightly, even as he wishes it weren’t so. On one hand, he likes the fact that the media outlet he’d chosen was honorable enough not to reveal the names on the List until they’d ensured for themselves that it was authentic. On the other hand, there isn’t much point of giving someone else the List if they’re not going to do anything with it.

But the Star City Register is just one of the three people who’d received a copy last night. Oliver’s plans for that evening already include tracking down the rookie cop Lance had mentioned and finding out what the police are doing with their own copy.

He turns off the news as they begin to discuss the business that had been destroyed by the so-called gas leak, and heads to his room again to change. It’s still early, and both Raisa and Emily have the day off, so Oliver plans to go for a run around the Queen estate (several times, if need be).

* * *

It’s been two weeks. Two long weeks since the Green Arrow had handed Roy a phone and told him to keep an eye out in the Glades, two weeks since Roy’s hero and savior had asked him for help, and in that time Roy has done absolutely nothing. Oh, he’s certainly tried. He’s listened to all his friends’ talk (acquaintances and associates, more like, for many of them), and kept an ear to the ground on the various odd jobs he’s done since then to earn himself just enough money to live by, and he’s even skulked around in a few dark alleys and cheap bars, but he hasn’t heard anything important enough that would merit a phone call.

The Green Arrow doesn’t care about some low level street thug bragging about the weed he’s growing in his basement, or the idiot who happens to make some quick cash selling a few stolen cars every year, or a beating meant to teach another gang member a lesson that’s already over and done with.

He stops crimes in progress, or he goes after repeat offenders. He’s not the cops, after all. He doesn’t _solve_ crimes.

And Roy wants to do this right, wants to prove to the Green Arrow that the hero made the right choice in trusting him. When he calls, he wants it to be because he has information that the hero would care about and hopefully doesn’t already know; he wants something _big_.

Except he hasn’t found anything of that quality yet, and the elation and motivation that had filled him upon finally meeting the Green Arrow is starting to wear off, the old frustration that had filled him before replacing it inch by stubborn inch.

(Maybe the Arrow doesn’t have time for these guys, but he does, doesn’t he?)

Sure, now he has proof that the hero knows who he is, and even is willing to accept a little help, but nothing’s changed, not really, not yet. Roy still has his _need_ to do something, anything, to help the people of the Glades in the way that he was helped, and he’s still standing around while people get hurt. While people hurt others.

His mind goes to Thea again as he dwells on the idea of hitting the streets himself for the umpteenth time, but he shakes the thoughts from his head. No, he’d promised her he’ll stay as safe as he can while working with the Green Arrow, and he’s going to uphold that promise for as long as he’s able. (He doesn’t know how long that will end up being, but he at least has to make an _effort_.)

Roy fiddles with the phone in his hand, torn two ways. He’s got _something_ , information and rumors about activity at one of Star City’s docks, but he doesn’t know if it’s enough to bother the Green Arrow with. It’s nothing concrete, but, if it’s true, it _could_ be something big. Maybe. Or just some idiot talking himself up.

He knows he has to do this right. First impressions are everything, and Roy can’t disappoint his hero – not just because of how it would make him feel, but because he _can’t_ be shut out, doesn’t want the man to return and take away the lifeline he’d given him.

Clenching his fist around the sleek black phone, Roy doesn’t know what to do.

But it’s been two weeks. Two weeks and he hasn’t even called once. Maybe, after such a long stretch of time, some news is better than nothing, even if Roy doesn’t know how much it’s actually worth.

Gritting his teeth and steeling his resolve, Roy hits speed dial one on the phone.

* * *

Steady and constant, if light, the rain has plagued Oliver all night, since he’d first put on the suit and hit the streets. It’s nowhere close to a late summer storm, just a drizzle, but it doesn’t seem to want to let up. Water Oliver can deal with. Moving around even when wet isn’t a problem, and neither is firing his arrows. But the never-ending rain clouds his visibility, muffles the sounds of the city, and the blanket of clouds above him blocks the little light that the stars and moon would otherwise provide.

It’s annoying, but despite all of that, part of Oliver marvels at the fact that he has the ability to be merely annoyed in the first place. On the island (and off it) annoyances weren’t allowed. You had to shut up and get over it, work through it or die. Sure, Oliver had complained plenty in the beginning, to Yao Fei and Slade and even Shado, but complaints had quickly been erased from his vocabulary.

Complaints got you nowhere: they were a waste of time and breath and brainpower. You either fixed what was annoying you or you learned to work with it. Focusing on any annoyance meant you weren’t focusing on the threat in front of you (and possibly behind you too).

It hadn’t helped that none of his companions, friendly or otherwise, had much tolerated his complaints. Not Slade and not the Yamashiro’s and not Anatoli and certainly not Waller.

But now… now the rain is annoying, and it’s bothering Oliver, but it’s not going to get him killed. He’s ignoring it mostly, in the moment, but he can go back to the foundry and throw out some complaint to Diggle or Felicity without either of them pointing out the futility of the words.

Part of that is because Diggle and Felicity hadn’t been involved in the situations Oliver had been in (though Diggle’s experience as a special ops soldier is a close second), part of it is because it’s his job to keep them alive, not the other way around. But it is mostly because, though Oliver is not really out of danger, he’s moved past the part of his life where he’d had to keep an ear to the ground and an eye on the back of his head at all times.

He relaxes, sometimes, in the basement of the foundry, or behind the walls of Queen Manor. It’s been almost two months since the Undertaking and his good mood at completing his mission with all his friends and family remaining alive (even with Moira in jail) hasn’t faded completely. It won’t last, Oliver _knows_ it won’t. But for once things don’t seem to be going too badly for him.

The point is, it’s raining, and it’s annoying Oliver even if it’s not hindering him too badly, but when he’s done for the night he gets to go home, and complain about the water pooling in his quiver, and take a hot shower, and fall asleep in a warm bed, sheltered from the weather around him.

He’s been home almost a year now (nine and a half months), and he’s still adjusting to the novelty of it all, even though technically he’d lived most of his life this way.

Currently tucked into an alcove keeping an eye on a particularly rowdy crowd at a popular bar in the Glades, Oliver notices the instant his phone vibrates against his body, tucked in tight under his jacket. He slips it out, glancing at the number of the caller. In the beginning, there was only one person who’d had his number, and that had been Laurel, and then Lance when he’d taken the phone. Now there are four people who could be calling him.

Oliver’s memorized each of the numbers of the phones he’d given them, unwilling to put their names in the phone just in case, but it isn’t a member of the Lance family, nor is it Superman who’s calling him.

He answers on the second ring, clicking on his voice synthesizer.

“What have you found?” he growls out. He has to be careful here, but no more careful than he is with anyone else who knows both Oliver Queen and the Green Arrow but doesn’t know they are one and the same. He doesn’t want to alienate Roy, to make him feel like the Green Arrow couldn’t care less about him, but nor can he inject any sort of familiarity into his tone.

_“I… I’m not sure,”_ Roy says, voice growing in confidence as he speaks. He’s still got a bit of hero worship that Oliver hopes he loses fairly soon. He’s reluctant to disappoint the man who’d saved him, and Oliver keeps this in mind as he listens. _“Just some rumors, about the Culebra gang.”_

“They’re the only ones who will deal with the Bertinelli family now,” Oliver confirms, the latest rumors _he’s_ heard, in the hopes that giving Roy a tidbit of information might help him put whatever he’d heard into context.

_“Yeah. I think they’re planning on buying some drugs?”_ Roy says, more question than statement. _“They were talking about the docks north of the city.”_

North of the city. Oliver’s brain seizes on the information instantly. He knows exactly which docks Roy is talking about – it had been on the short list of three that he and Digg and Felicity had narrowed it down to. If he warns Roy to stay away, will the kid actually listen to him, or will he involve himself in the danger?

Oliver weighs Roy’s hero worship with his drive to help his city, factoring in what little information Thea has shared with her brother about her boyfriend, and comes to a decision.

“That helps,” he says firmly. “The deal’s going down on the nineteenth. Stay out of that part of the city.” Then he hangs up and glances down at the phone in his hand, hoping he made the right call. It’s too late to change his mind now anyway. He pockets the phone again and activates his comm link.

_“Yeah?”_ Digg asks.

“We’ve got a lead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to everyone reading this fic, and please let me know what you think of it! I've got it outlined up until about December, but not all written out, so if you noticed that I upped the number of chapters to 40, that's why. I still have no idea how long this will be, but given that Slade didn't act in canon until May... Well, we've got a ways yet to go, regardless of what I make him do. 
> 
> Chapter 8: Guard the Glades, should be up August 18th. Thanks for following along!


	8. Guard the Glades

_August 18-19, 2013:_

At eight thirty on a Sunday night, the Big Belly Burger is empty but for the four of them and the man behind the counter (and, Oliver mentally tallies, the cook he can hear moving about in the kitchen). The fluorescent lights glimmer weakly off the scuffed floor and the sounds of their voices are muffled in the small space. They have the place to themselves and their food is warm and steaming, freshly cooked when it gets handed to them over the counter. Taking their baskets, they move to their typical table in the far corner.

Diggle slides into the booth closest to the front door, Felicity tucking in after him without regard to her surroundings. Oliver lets Tommy take the window seat, then follows him into the booth at just the right angle for him to keep his eyes on the front door and still see the man behind the front counter out of the corner of his gaze.

It’s a late dinner for all of them involved and they all set down their baskets in front of them and dig in with relish: Felicity bites into a too-hot fry, wincing as it hits her tongue, and Tommy squirts ketchup over his burger. Digg grabs the mustard.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” Oliver asks across the table after he takes a long sip of his water. He and Felicity and Diggle have met up for dinner before nightly patrols before, but Felicity had specifically mentioned wanting to talk about something before she’d gone home the previous night. (He casts a careful and subtle glance toward the cashier, but the man is lounging as much as he can in his stool behind the counter, the glare of his phone in his hands illuminating his screen. He’s not listening, even if he could hear their low voices.)

“Well,” Felicity begins, waving around the fry in her hand, “I’ve been monitoring the police radio – well, Digg’s been helping me sift through it all – for any reports about yours truly, or things like repeat instances that we might want to investigate – like those bank robbers you and Digg stopped a while back –”

“And is there something we might want to investigate?” Oliver prompts, cutting in before she can get too off topic. Between the explosion and the drug deal and his usual patrols, plus his resurgence into investigating the List, he’s got a fair amount on his plate right now. And that’s just the vigilante related list.

(Next to Oliver, the vinyl of the bench squishes slightly as Tommy shifts his weight from one side to another, fingers a bit too tight as he grips his burger in both hands. He’s still not quite comfortable with the vigilante talk, as though he’s still not sure he wants to be included, or maybe just because he’s nervous about them having this discussion anywhere other than in the seclusion of the foundry.)

Felicity levels a patiently amused look across the table at Oliver. “And we found something we might want to look into,” she finishes, as though she was never interrupted.

Oliver feels no guilt, though a small smile threatens to form on his face. He’s heard Felicity ramble too many times, and get considerably off topic, for him to feel bad about interrupting. She knows it too.

“Another vigilante,” Diggle adds, cutting right to the chase with a glance between the two of them. “Possibly.”

The way Oliver’s muscles stiffen in response is entirely involuntary, as though his body makes decisions without consulting his mind, and any amusement is wiped clean from his thoughts. There’s a frown on his face that he smooths out within milliseconds, forcing his body to relax again.

Whatever the threat is, it’s not here, right now. He doesn’t need to be on guard, he tells himself, even as his gaze sweeps the restaurant again.

“It kinda makes sense,” Diggle continues, grabbing a fry from his basket, “after the Undertaking and all.”

Sense or not, Oliver doesn’t want another vigilante in his town. He remembers the last one who had tried to operate in Star City – he’s rotting away in Iron Heights now, a life sentence for first-degree murder on two accounts, plus his attempted murder of Roy Harper.

( _You’re a murderer_ , Oliver’s inner voice reminds himself. But that’s different. Mostly. Oliver had never set out with the intention of killing anyone. It had always been a last resort for him, since he’d returned to Star City. Falk, on the other hand, had approached his victims with the intent to see them dead.

And Oliver had never gone after street kids like Roy Harper, and he’d never publicized his attack on anyone.)

“What do we know?” he asks, unable to keep some of the harshness out of his voice.

“Not much,” Felicity admits sheepishly as she sets down her milkshake. “I mean, there’s only been two reports that I’ve found, so it could just be nothing.”

“But…?”

“But there are two would-be-rapists in the hospital telling similar tales,” Digg answers for Felicity.

“Broken leg and ribs, concussion for one, the other has two broken ankles and a broken collarbone – they won’t be going anywhere anytime soon,” Felicity says, a small tinge of satisfaction in her tone. (Oliver feels his own thrum of pleasure at the thought, at the punishment merited out to the two attempted rapists. No deaths, at least, so that’s something. The bench beside him shifts again.)

Digg shoots Felicity a look for stealing his thunder and continues his explanation. “Both say they were attacked by a woman in black, with some sort of stick.”

A staff, Oliver thinks to himself instantaneously, or perhaps escrima sticks. He’s already picturing the scene, dark and ill-lit, a figure swooping out of the shadows. He can understand why the average civilian – average thug, would call such weapons nothing more than mere sticks.

“Once is chance, twice is coincidence – three points and you’ve got a data set,” Felicity cautions.

“So find me a third data point,” Oliver responds simply, putting the news to the back of his mind for now and making a mental note to go over the information Felicity has dug up in more detail later. He can’t do anything about a possible vigilante from here. “In the meantime, the drug deal goes down tomorrow night.” He looks at Digg across the diagonal of the table. “Should I be expecting backup in the field?”

He doesn’t need it – shouldn’t – but if Digg wants to offer…

Digg himself glances over at Felicity. “We were actually thinking of calling in the SCPD for this one,” he says hesitantly, clearly testing how Oliver will respond to the idea.

“You really think they’ll work with me? Instead of against me?” Oliver asks. His tone isn’t critical, but it is probing, testing Diggle’s resolve in turn.

“Yeah,” Digg says, “I do.”

And as much as Oliver knows how much some of the cops still hate him, as much as he knows there’s still a warrant out for his arrest, Oliver agrees. “Alright.” He nods once, then sneaks a look at Tommy out of the corner of his eye.

He’d invited Tommy tonight before his shift at Verdant starts because, despite Tommy’s decision to back out slightly from the vigilante stuff, Oliver doesn’t want to fall apart again. He doesn’t think Tommy does either. (He’s hoping, at least, that that’s not the real reason why Tommy has asked for some distance between them.)

Shifting in his seat, Oliver relaxes himself even more, opening his body language to be more inviting, friendlier. He lets a small smile settle onto his face. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Tommy,” he says, tone mildly serious. “What do you think of the Queen Consolidated CEO candidates?”

Oliver knows what Tommy had said the other night, about not wanting to lie to Laurel – he’s replayed that conversation a thousand times over in his mind – but he also remembers the argument the two of them had had in the basement, when Tommy had protested Oliver treating him like he was fragile. He had noticed Oliver’s careful movements and crafted words and hadn’t appreciated them. So while Oliver notices the tension drain from Tommy’s body at his question, can see the gratitude for the topic change in Tommy’s eyes, he’s not going to hide what he’s capable of from his best friend. Not anymore.

Tommy falls into the new topic easily, and Felicity leans forward, getting into it as well (not surprising, given her personal stake in the decision), and the four of them fall into a much lighter evening conversation before they go their separate ways – one above and three below. And if Oliver lets slip a piece of information or two about each of the candidates that isn’t readily available to the public, or even to the current CEO, Tommy only shoots him an amused glance and lets it slide.

* * *

Felicity has work Monday morning, immersing her in the world outside of what the Arrow does, so even though Oliver and Diggle spend most of the morning and afternoon in the foundry basement, going through every last detail of the drug deal supposedly taking place that night, they also hear plenty about everything else going on in Star City through her constant texts and updates.

Nobody seems to know how to react to the List. Questions fly rampant over social media sites and news articles alike. Talk radio hosts discuss it. A small number of the rich of Star City issue press releases essentially saying _that’s not about us_. (Some of them are on the List, some of them genuinely aren’t.)

The largest debate seems to be whether or not the List is trustworthy, though in different ways. Some say they shouldn’t trust anything Malcolm Merlyn wrote down (not a bad point, that). Some say there’s no way to verify that the Arrow didn’t write the list himself (technically correct, and Oliver can’t blame anyone for their suspicions). Others even go so far as to say that they can’t even be sure that the Arrow was even the one to deliver the List, though Oliver knows his silhouette was caught on camera at the _Register_ ’s office. He’d made sure of that.

The second largest debate is whether or not Star City deserves to know the names on the List. Oliver doesn’t pay too much attention to that debate – he knows all the arguments, all the pros and cons; he’s thought them all a thousand times himself.

He trusts the List, but he does his research on each name before he targets them. If there’s even a chance that there’s one person on there who doesn’t deserve to be, who is only mentioned because they’d pissed off Malcolm or Robert…

Well, he’ll let Star City decide. He’s got his own problems to focus on, because by the time the sun starts to sink below the western horizon he and Digg (and Felicity too, who’d showed up after work with take-out) still haven’t managed to determine the particular member of the Bertinelli family in charge of the incoming shipment, or any exact information about the time or the boat being used.

The Bertinellis are being far more cautious than they used to be, helped by a healthy distrust of electronic communication this time, and they haven’t included much sensitive information in the emails Oliver had managed to get Felicity access to.

What they do know, partially thanks to Roy, is that it’s going down tonight, and what dock the boat will be coming in to (it’s not an international shipment, just from somewhere else in the States), and who the lead is on the Culebra side of the deal.

Not much, but enough to put a stop to it. With few other options, Oliver has resolved to spend his night on stake out, and he leaves the foundry just as dusk begins, sticking to the shadows as he weaves his way toward the ocean.

Lance hadn’t been happy about the lack of information – there was no excuse he could give which would allow him to assign an entire taskforce to remain on standby by the docks for the entirety of the night – but he’d pretended to get a tip about the Green Arrow and Oliver knows there will be at least two officers from the vigilante taskforce nearby at all times, supposedly keeping an eye out for him. (While they’re taking his tips now, and arresting the men he restrains, there’s still a warrant out for his arrest after all.)

(And if Oliver knows Detective Lance at all, the other man has probably ensured that his own patrols for the night are relatively close by.)

So Oliver’s got a night of inactivity in front of him, but he does have backup, and both Felicity and Diggle in the foundry if he needs them.

He finds a quiet spot on the roof of the main building at the docks, high enough up to give him a good vantage point but not so high that he won’t be able to easily make his way to the wooden boards below him, and settles in to wait. It’s almost a full moon, and it’s a clear summer’s night without a cloud in the sky, which already puts the stakeout in the list of the top ten of Oliver’s short career as a vigilante.

He lets the stillness settle into his bones as his breathing becomes soft and even. His mind wanders slightly, from time to time, as the moon sweeps its path across the sky above him, but he keeps it focused for the most part, studying every inch of his surroundings – any motion will snap him from his half-alert state. He’s long since learned how to remain still for hours at a time. Mostly, he occupies his time by memorizing the landscape around him: potential obstacles, potential weapons, the location where his bike is tucked away, the dimensions of the dock (so that he doesn’t misstep in the darkness, in the middle of a fight, and fall into the ocean around him).

Time passes, and because Oliver doesn’t feel too worried about being spotted (no one’s looking for him), and he’s chosen a location with decent cover from the ground view, he shifts and stretches every now and again, keeping himself limber and ready for anything.

Neither Felicity nor Diggle interrupt him, knowing that a distraction at the wrong moment could prove disastrous, but if Oliver knows them too (and he does) they’re probably filling the foundry basement with idle chatter, or researching other crimes for him to stop in the future. He doesn’t let his brain wonder too much on that – it’s not relevant to the task at hand.

Movement catches his eye once, twice, three times as the hours dwindle by. The first is a stray cat wandering by at the tail end of dusk, a few bright stars now twinkling brightly above the scene. The second is hours later, just debris floating in from the ocean and glinting weakly of the streetlamp illuminating where the dock meets the land. The third, at half past two in the morning, is a car, pulling into the lot. It’s sleek and black, with tinted windows and dimmed headlights. Oliver shifts his attention and watches four men exit it, all dressed in suits (though only one is wearing a jacket), all with guns visible at their waists.

They meander their way toward the docks, one man glancing at his wrist, but they haven’t yet reached the water’s edge when another car pulls in, equally as sleek and black and expensive. Both groups are putting on their best presentation for this meeting. Three men exit the new car, just as well armed, and Oliver’s already solid suspicions are confirmed when he recognizes all three of them: the Bertinelli family and the Culebra gang have arrived to make a deal.

The two groups square off, three to four, shoulders braced and tense even as they make small talk and hold back from overtly sneering at each other. The leaders even shake hands, palms touching briefly, fingers squeezing, before they pull back. (Honeycutt – it’s Jasper Honeycutt, Bertinelli’s right hand man running the deal. Oliver’d figured, but they’d never been able to confirm that.)

Chatter, low and tense, fills the docks for a short while before the sound of a boat (lights also dimmed and glinting weakly off the gentle black sea) makes its way to Oliver’s ears.

He clicks on his comm for a moment. “They’re here,” he states simply, and mutes it again. No need to waste words and Felicity and Diggle will know to alert the police based on those words alone.

Oliver waits a bit longer, crouched on his toes, as the boat draws closer to the docks, angling for an empty spot between an old sailboat and a creaking, once-sleek speedboat. He wants the men to relax a bit and start the transaction, and he wants the boat to be secure when he attacks.

He lets a minute pass, then two, muscles tight and ready as the boat slips into place with a gentle bump against the dock, a rope tossed out to another man. The transaction is going to take place on the boat though – that’s where the drugs are, after all – so Oliver doesn’t wait for the men to disembark, because they might not after all. He stands and nocks the flash-bang arrow ready and waiting in his hands, firing it into the middle of the gathered group of six men still hovering near where the water meets the land.

Ducking his head away from the resulting noise and light, Oliver can still tell that his attack had done as he’d intended, sending the men into a panic as they blindly reach for their weapons. The three on and near the boat are a little less stunned, but no less surprised.

Oliver pulls two more arrows from his quiver, firing one after the other as he runs toward the edge of the roof. One finds its target in the shoulder of the man who’d been tying the boat to the dock. Another implants itself in Honeycutt’s calf. Two down, five more on land, plus the two on the boat that he can see. Dropping off the building and rising with another arrow nocked, Oliver takes down a third man, then spins and knocks down a fourth with a few well-placed hits.

By then some of the men have recovered slightly and a stray shot makes its way past Oliver. He pins the man who fired it (having retreated slightly to take aim) to his own car with a cable arrow, then turns back to the man he’d hit with his own fists. He’s struggling to his feet again with a gun in his hands, body between Oliver and everyone else but the two on the boat. A useful shield, but only briefly. Oliver ducks under his outstretched arm and swipes out his leg. Losing his balance, the man falls backward, off the docks and into the ocean.

It's then that he hears the sirens, and the two SCPD cops who had been nearby screech into the parking lot with the distinct scent of rubber on asphalt, quickly taking positions behind the safety of their car. “SCPD, put your hands in the air!” a male voice shouts firmly, and more cursing erupts from the men attacking Oliver.

But the arrival of the police splits the drug dealer’s attention and, rather than the four men Oliver still had left to deal with, only the two behind him on the boat are still focused on him. One of them, now recovered from the flash-bang, levels his gun at the vigilante in front of him.

Oliver dodges to the side, turning what would otherwise be a fall into a roll, but there’s not much room to maneuver on the narrow dock and the bullet still scrapes past him, taking a chunk of his flesh, exposing his blood to the crisp, night-time ocean air. He acknowledges the pain, catalogs and archives it, but it’s just a flesh wound. The white-hot path of the bullet’s trajectory has just barely grazed his thigh, and it stings, makes Oliver grit his teeth in pain and grunt as he hits the ground, but it is nothing.

It is oh so little in the grand scheme of things.

He rises from his roll fluidly and sends a flechette into the wrist of the man who’d fired at him. He drops his gun instantly, with a cry of pain, the metal clattering rather unsafely to the floor of the boat, but that’s one less enemy that Oliver has to worry about. (The other man seems to be trying to untie the boat, perhaps unwilling to face the Arrow, perhaps unwilling to give the police the chance to confiscate what the boat carries.)

Of course, it’s then that he hears the explosion. Muffled somewhat by distance, it nevertheless catches his attention instantly. It’s not far, just a bit further south along the waterline. In that moment, two goals war within Oliver, tearing him in two directions. The drugs have the potential to harm many, and the gangs are a symptom of the corruption of his city, but the explosion could be hurting people _now_ and, once again, Oliver knows the nearest fire station is some distance away.

Oliver can’t take his time and consider the pros and cons of his actions: he needs to move now, in the moment, if he’s going to move at all. And there are two cops here, already handling the gangs.

As the thug he’d injured swears at him from his hunched over position, cradling his bleeding wrist, Oliver turns away and sprints for his bike, firing one last arrow into a calf as he leaves. Pain races up his own leg with each thud of his right foot against the old wooden boards that flex and bend beneath him, but his focus is laser sharp and his commitment unwavering.

He clicks on his end of the comm again as he runs. “Another explosion,” he grunts out.

_“What?”_ Felicity’s voice is startled, but that’s to be expected. This explosion was close to the waterfront, much further from the foundry than the first one.

_“We got it,”_ Digg says a moment later, and Oliver pictures the man leaning over Felicity’s shoulder as she types frantically at her keyboard, lips pursed in concentration.

_“Near Ocean View and Rockside,”_ Felicity continues, speaking quickly.

Oliver grunts in acknowledgement, nestling his bow in the spot between his handlebars as he slides onto his motorcycle, muting his end of the connection and revving the engine. He chances nothing more than a quick glance at his wound, an evaluation that lasts mere seconds – it’ll need stitches, but it’s not bleeding that badly; it’ll hold for now – then pulls his feet up and speeds away from the docks, and the sound of bullets and shouts behind him.

* * *

The building that exploded this time is still smoking when Oliver pulls up in front of it, dust and rubble drifting to the ground in a steady stream, but unlike last time there are no injured pedestrians lingering in front of it. This time, it’s not yet three in the morning and, though the lights are on in nearby buildings – no doubt people woken by the noise – there’s no one on the sidewalk, no cars stopped in the street.

It looks empty, and much more stable than the small barber shop from before. Oliver knows better than to draw comparisons, because the two events might not even be related, but if it’s anything like last time, he doesn’t expect there will be anyone inside.

Oliver turns on his end of the connection again without dismounting from his bike. “Anything?” he asks.

“There’s not enough information yet to narrow down which store was hit yet,” Felicity responds immediately (like last time, the building with flames flickering inside it is on a street lined with small businesses), “but I checked everything on the street, nothing opens for hours.”

Little chance of anyone being inside then, and Oliver can see no evidence that anyone was present when the explosion had occurred. Despite the dust and shattered windows, the explosion looks smaller than before too – all Oliver can see of the outside of the building is still intact, though he doubts the inside looks the same, given the flickers of orange dancing faintly in the darkness.

“And the fire department?” he asks.

“On their way.”

Oliver nods, revs his motorcycle again, and spins back the way he’d come. “I’ll leave it to them then,” he tells his friends back at the foundry, and mutes the connection between them once more.

The explosion wasn’t far from the docks the Bertinellis and the Culebra’s have claimed at their own, and Oliver makes good time getting back, but he was still gone for far too long.

When he pulls up on his bike the two police officers that had gotten there first are behind their car, one of them laid out on the ground, a pool of blood underneath his right shoulder while his partner frantically applies pressure to his wound. Lance is there too now, rising up over the car to return shots with the men still standing.

Oliver quickly spins his bike sideways, nocking an arrow as he scans the scene. The man he’d hit with the cable arrow is still pinned to his car, the man he’d thrown into the water is nowhere to be seen, and the two men on the boat (one with a fletchette in his wrist) are pulling away from the docks as he watches. (Four down, five left.) One of the men he’d hit in the calf seems to be unconscious behind some crates; the man he’d hit in the shoulder still seems to be awake, but he’s not fighting back, hand pressed desperately into his wound. (Six down, three to go.)

That leaves Honeycutt, on his knees as he shoots back at Lance, having pulled the arrow out of his own calf, one man who looks to have been winged by a police bullet, or perhaps friendly fire, and another who seems entirely uninjured.

Oliver’s arrow hits that man’s gun as he pops up again from behind his cover, throwing it from his hand and, given the resulting scream of pain, probably breaking a few fingers as well. He makes his way behind cover of his own, glancing toward Lance and his officers.

“’bout time you showed up!” Lance snarls at him, distinctly displeased with the situation.

The Green Arrow doesn’t respond, just re-evaluates the playing field. He considers briefly making a run for the boat – he could catch it, though just barely – but that would mean leaving the injured officer and, though there are sirens in the distance, he doesn’t want to do that. He fires an explosive arrow near the ground where Honeycutt is taking cover instead and takes advantage of the resulting light and noise to sneak up on him, knocking him down for the count and ducking under the cover he was using as the last man switches to Oliver as his target.

Lance takes able advantage of that, and his well-aimed bullet strikes the man’s outstretched shoulder as he fires at the Green Arrow. Stillness settles over the docks, but not silence; there are groans of pain and curses filling Oliver’s ears. The man pinned but uninjured struggles and swears. Many of those on the ground, including the officer down, are breathing heavily, fighting through the pain they’re in. The soft sound of the retreating boat motor is drowned by the approaching police sirens.

The air is thick with gunpowder and the coppery scent of blood, overwhelming the fresh ocean breeze. Oliver evaluates the scene once more, and the flashing lights of the sirens he can now see. He glances over at Lance, standing still with his bow in hand. Normally he would just leave, but normally he doesn’t let officers get injured on his watch. Him leaving last time had been the problem.

Lance scowls at him, caught up in the fear of the moment and worry for his officer as he lowers his weapon, but he nods and Oliver takes that as an ‘all clear’. He nods back, and when Lance glances towards the sirens again he throws himself on his bike and races off towards the foundry.

* * *

It was… not a good night, but Oliver doesn’t let himself dwell on that until his motorcycle is hidden once more and he limps into the foundry basement and pulls down his hood. His wound has clotted slightly but his movements in dismounting the bike had opened it fully once more and he knows that he has to tend to it soon.

To his surprise, however, Tommy is downstairs with both Felicity and Diggle. While Oliver’s new friends have had plenty of time to get acquainted with how Oliver looks and acts whenever something didn’t go well, Tommy’s known Oliver all his life. Despite the gulf between them now, he clearly recognizes the look of displeasure on Oliver’s face.

Frowning, he glances up and down Oliver’s form, and pales slightly as he spots the blood caking Oliver’s leg. In the bright lights of the foundry basement, the dark red blood on Oliver’s dark green pants is much more easily visible than it had been out in Star City’s night, full moon or not. Tommy’s frown turns into an unsettled grimace.

He can’t seem to stomach the blood, which… Well, Oliver can understand that. He’d been like that once too, what seems like an eternity ago, and Felicity’s still squeamish. But if Tommy can’t handle the blood, he definitely won’t like when Oliver pulls out the thread and needle.

“How’d it go?” Felicity asks hesitantly and unnecessarily, with a side glance at Tommy. A distraction from Oliver’s injury, no doubt, and he’ll take it gladly.

_Don’t tiptoe around your best friend anymore_ , Oliver reminds himself, _he wants the truth_. But was this truth – the blood and the injuries and the failure – really what Tommy wanted to hear about? Wasn’t ignorance bliss, sometimes?

Oliver scolds himself mentally. _No. If Tommy wants honesty from me, he’ll get it. He just doesn’t have to know all the gritty details_. Sometimes ignorance was only bliss until it got you killed, even if that probably didn’t apply here.

“Not well,” he says plainly. He turns back to Felicity and her computers. “There was an officer down.”

“On it,” she says, spinning back to the computers and typing rapidly.

Diggle has already gotten out the first aid kit, setting out the disinfectant, and the sterilized needle and thread. Oliver doesn’t care about stripping in front of people, taking off his pants and getting started on his wound, but he doesn’t really think Tommy wants to see that. His injury can wait a little longer.

Instead he hangs up his bow and unzips his jacket, pulling it off and setting it to the side as well. When he sits down to unlace his boots (moving slowly and casually all the while, hiding his pain, making sure Tommy isn’t too worried), he glances over at his old friend.

“You might not want to stick around for this,” he says, injecting just a sliver of humor into his voice. “You never did like gory movies.”

Tommy grimaces, eyes flickering back to Oliver’s leg, but he nods, looking grateful for the out. “Are you… you okay?” he asks, swallowing.

Oliver gives an easy smile in response. “Fine,” he says, “just a scratch.” _It’s not lying,_ he tells himself. It _is_ just a flesh wound, and it is insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and Oliver will have forgotten all about it in a couple of days, but he’s also not telling Tommy that it’s a bullet wound, or mentioning the throbbing pain he’s in even now, or the way the disinfectant will sting, or how he’ll be pushing a needle and thread through his own skin in a few minutes.

Tommy swallows again, nods uncertainly, and glances toward the stairs. “Alright,” he says hesitantly. “I’ll… check in later?”

“Breakfast,” Oliver suggests calmly. “We can discuss Verdant’s books like we were supposed to.” Like nothing is wrong, and he isn’t injured.

His calm tone evidently works somewhat, because Tommy seems to relax slightly as he nods once more. “Alright,” he says one final time, then turns and makes his way up the stairs with only one final, uncertain glance backward.

“You really need to start _filling us in_ on your injuries, _before_ you get back here,” Digg scolds him as the door shuts above them. “How bad is it really?”

Oliver has already started to peel off his pants for easier access to his injury, allowing a grimace to cross his face as he does so. (He doesn’t need to hide from Digg and Felicity, he reminds himself for the thousandth time.) “Just a graze,” he says honestly, ignoring the first part of Digg’s words, “but it was a while ago, before the explosion. I’ve lost a bit of blood.”

Diggle gestures silently to the water bottle and protein bar he’d set beside the first aid supplies and Oliver gives him a grateful look as he takes a seat on the stool in his underwear and starts cleaning up the blood.

“Want me to handle that?” Digg offers.

“I can reach this one,” Oliver declines. It’s useful, having someone to help patch up the wounds he can’t quite reach, but this is not one of those wounds and Oliver’s not going to put Diggle through that if he can help it.

Something unreadable crosses Digg’s expression for a moment but he doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t get the chance to, as Felicity spins around in her chair, keeping her gaze directly upward and away from Oliver (more from the blood and gore than the partial nudity, Oliver knows). “The officer’s still in critical condition,” she relays. “It’s not a particularly bad wound, he just lost a lot of blood. And the fact that I’m even familiar enough with medical charts to be able to…” but she glances at Oliver for a moment and the sight of him wincing as he disinfects his wound stops her in her tracks. She winces herself, spinning back to her computers.

“Not how I pictured seeing you in your underwear,” she half-mutters before freezing in alarm. “Not that I’ve ever pictured seeing you in your underwear! Just… I’m going to stop talking again.”

“That might be a good idea,” Digg says playfully, and Oliver snorts in amusement as he threads the needle.

“The name on the boat was the _Tailwind_ ,” he says, using the topic to distract him from what he’s doing. “It managed to get away with the drugs still on it.”

“Probably not an uncommon boat name,” Diggle warns.

“I’d recognize it if I saw it again,” Oliver states simply. Even if they change the name.

“Alright, so, track down the boat and look into the explosion,” Felicity says. “I can do that. In the meantime, did we figure out who was heading the deal?”

“Jasper Honeycutt.”

“Pino’s right-hand man,” Felicity muses, glancing at the board displaying what they understand of the Bertinelli family structure. “He looks slimy.”

“Who did we get?”

“Four members of the Culebra gang,” Oliver tallies, “and three members of the Bertinelli family, including Honeycutt. Nicolo was on the boat.” Nicolo Bertinelli is a distant cousin several times removed from Frank, just high enough in the organization to merit a spot on their board. Oliver hadn’t recognized any of the other men by name.

“It’s a start,” Diggle says, just as Oliver cuts the thread now holding his flesh together.

He catches the sweatpants Digg throws at him and pulls them on, then takes a sip of the water bottle set out for him. “Yes, it is,” he agrees simply, and tests how much weight he can put on his leg as he stands.

* * *

Restarting an already defunct clinic in a poor area of the city is a lot harder than Tommy had thought it was going to be. Yeah, he’d known it wasn’t going to be a piece of cake or anything like that but he has the capital now, after selling Merlyn Global and his childhood home and all of his father’s other assets, and he was used to living in a reality where money made the world go ‘round.

It is not nearly so simple as that. (It could be, Tommy figures, he’d bribed Verdant’s building inspector, once, but… He’s never going to go there. Not for this. He’s going to do this properly.)

Currently he’s managed to do little more than track down and contact the woman who’d run the place while his mother had been alive – not an easy task that, given how long it has been – and is in the process of trying to find the appropriate space. Malcolm had been quick to sell the property as soon as he’d shut the clinic down, and – nothing against his mother – Tommy doesn’t want to repurchase the space.

He wants something bigger, a hope for anyone who can’t afford the hospital. But he is also keenly aware of how hard life can be in the Glades, after everything that has happened in his life. His mother had been shot down as she’d walked to her car and, in the aftermath of his father’s Undertaking, looters had all but driven two clinics in the Glades out of business.

Tommy needs a large building in the Glades, with adequate, well-lit parking, capable of being easily defended, and central, so that nobody has to go too far. He thinks of Verdant, and how Oliver had simply adapted one of his family’s old factories for his own purposes, but it’s not going to be that easy for him. Along with the clinic, any properties Malcom had owned in the Glades had been sold as his plan had progressed. While there are a fair amount of abandoned buildings to choose from, finding the right one will be a challenge.

“What about this one?” he says into his phone, pushing aside a folder and focusing on the one underneath it. He’d needed a distraction after what he’d seen that morning in the lair, as Felicity calls it, and he’d been meaning to call and get started on a decision in the next few days anyway. “1563 Rockside. It’s got the square footage.”

“Yes, but no parking lot,” Mrs. Montgomery – “Please, call me Marta” – says.

“Right,” Tommy agrees, pushing that folder aside as well. Mrs. Montgomery is pushing seventy now, and practically retired, but she’s been a big help so far. She’s told him stories of his mother as well; tales Tommy hadn’t known he’d been longing for but has absorbed like a sponge. He spots another address that sounds familiar and realizes the building is only a few streets over from Verdant. “What about… 542 Henry Street?”

They’d gone to the realtor’s together a couple days ago and Tommy knows she has the same folders in front of her that he does.

“Hmm…” Mrs. Montgomery hums over the connection. “It has the size, and the parking lot, but… it might be a bit too big, dear.”

Tommy studies the quick facts sheet. The first floor is just the right size, but the basement underneath it is equally as large, and unnecessary for their purposes. “We can just use the basement for storage,” he says, once more thinking of Verdant, and the secret hidden beneath it. “Besides, that’s a great price for the size.”

“It is,” she agrees hesitantly, “but that’s because of the neighborhood, and it’s been abandoned for a while.”

“I wanted to start from scratch anyway,” Tommy reminds her. “And isn’t that the whole point, to pick a bad neighborhood?”

Mrs. Montgomery lets out a light laugh. “You got me there, son,” she says in a grandmotherly sort of way. “I suppose we’ll add it to the pile of possibilities. Now, what about this one, on Oxford Court?”

Tommy locates the folder amongst his own piles, and they start up the debate all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and don't be afraid to let me know what you think! Chapter 9: Conversations, should be up in just two days, on August 20th. 
> 
> Also, I keep forgetting to mention this, but I am on Tumblr under the same name, if anyone ever wants to talk about this! 
> 
> And finally, my old beta is pretty busy given she's starting grad school, so if anyone's interested in letting me bounce ideas off them, let me know!


	9. Conversations

_August 20, 2013, early afternoon:_

_“…are calling for an investigation of Star City’s gas lines, particularly those gas lines managed by the Pacific Gas and Electric company. An inside source claims that preliminary investigations have already revealed miles of piping that have been passed over for inspection at least once, and funding has been slashed twice in the past ten years in the divisions responsible for managing the gas lines. And the problem isn’t just limited to Star City’s poorer neighborhoods…”_

Sprawled on her bed, chin in one hand, feet in the air, Thea frowns at the computer screen in front of her, more or less ignoring the news that she has running in the background (they’ve been talking about the gas line explosions nonstop for the past two days – old news, now). She’d taken the SATs at some point (and possibly cheated on them? She can’t really remember) and apparently, if she wants to go anywhere other than community college, she needs to find out what her scores had been and how to access them. The website she’s supposed to do that through isn’t helping her confusion, and apparently you have to _pay_ to tell colleges what you scored? (Not that money’s an issue, but… Hadn’t she paid to take the test in the first place?)

_Is this even really worth it?_ She can’t help but wonder, gaze flickering over her TV as the news transitions from the recent gas line explosions to a shootout in the Glades between cops and gangbangers, and the Arrow too, from the sound of it. It catches her mind for an instant as they flash an image of the hero on screen, but it’s old footage, nothing new, and Thea turns back to her computer and her internal dilemma. She still isn’t sure if she even wants to go to college (well, no, she’s sure she _doesn’t_ ) but with nothing else to do with her time, she can’t stop thinking about it anyway. Isn’t that what people her age are supposed to do?

Thea has never been the academic type, not even before she got into drugs and alcohol, not even before the _Gambit_ had sank. She’d loved school back then for the company, not the classes. But she could use some normalcy right now. Something that _isn’t_ associated with her family’s money, with her mother’s crimes.

Then again, normalcy in college is supposed to be drugs and alcohol and partying, isn’t it? It had been for Oliver, when he’d gone, and Thea doesn’t want to be sucked back into that. She’s sober now, and the fuzzy memories she has of her car crash make her want to stay that way.

Giving up, Thea lets her feet thud back down onto her pillows behind her as she closes her laptop with a sharp click. She swings herself off the bed with ease, socked feet warm against the plush carpeting, and grabs the remote off her bedside table, muting the man being interviewed now about how much of a menace the Arrow still is with a harsh push of a button and a sneer on her face. She doesn’t need to hear that either. Not when he was the only one who’d managed to stop her mother’s plans.

She doesn’t want to think about any of this. She wants to forget all about what her mother did, or almost did, or _wanted_ to do. She almost turns right back around and opens her laptop to search for colleges far, far away. She could leave so easily – get lost in the bustle of Metropolis, or the heat of Florida, or even just National City, a couple hours down the coast.

But she couldn’t. She doesn’t want to be known as the girl who fled from her mother’s twisted legacy (just the woman who wasn’t a part of it at all). And she can’t lose anyone else. She harbors no illusions about being able to convince Roy to come with her. Or Oliver, for that matter, or Walter or Tommy or Laurel.

Tossing the remote back onto her thick blankets without a care for where it lands, Thea leaves the room without bothering to make her bed. She might as well get something to eat, now that she’s up.

Surprisingly, the kitchen isn’t empty though and Thea gets the distraction she’d been looking for when she spies Oliver standing beside the counter, halving cherry tomatoes. It’s enough to startle her melancholy mood right out of her, even if only for a moment.

“Am I seeing things?” Thea asks over the soft, repetitive sounds of his knife against the cutting board. She’s grinning as she steps into the room. “Or is my irresponsible older brother actually cooking?”

Oliver doesn’t seem surprised to see her. He glances up with his own small smile, fondness shining through his eyes. “Does salad count as cooking?”

Thea pauses, pretending to consider it. “Hmm…” she muses. “No, it doesn’t – but eating salad for lunch might actually make you _more_ responsible.”

He doesn’t joke back, sweeping the halved tomatoes into his bowl and moving on to the green onions in front of him, but his smile widens slightly as he chuckles and that’s a victory in Thea’s book.

“Want some?” he asks.

She laughs. “No thanks, I think I’ll stick with my leftover take-out.”

“Suit yourself,” Oliver replies easily.

They both fall silent for a few moments, the rhythmic sound of Oliver chopping providing a gentle background hum to Thea’s own movements, kitchen utensils clinking and cabinets opening and closing. There’s a comforting stillness to the room as Oliver stands still off to one side, Thea flitting about: fetching a knife and fork from one drawer, then a plate from a cabinet, taking her leftovers from the fridge and scraping them onto the plate.

It isn’t until Oliver finishes with the last of his vegetables, swirling them amongst his bowl of leafy greens, that he speaks again. By that time, Thea is standing in front of the microwave as her leftovers spin in front of her, subtly watching her brother’s movements and musing on how much he’s changed since he’s been back.

Of course, she was only twelve when he left, and he twenty-two. Of course they’re not the same people they once were.

“I’m going to go to the prison next Wednesday, to meet with Mom and her lawyer,” Oliver says simply, without fanfare. His eyes watch Thea closely, cautiously.

“Good for you,” Thea replies shortly, shoulders now tense, knife and fork clenched too tightly in her fingers. So much for a distraction. She’s tired of talking about the would-be-murderer that Oliver still calls their mother and she’s tired of meeting her brother’s gaze and seeing nothing but wariness and tempered steel behind his eyes. More than that, she’s tired of the way that almost a year at home has barely brought Oliver any closer to her.

Oliver’s jaw flexes, but he only nods once and makes his way to the table.

He’s not the boy who’d left home with his girlfriend’s sister anymore. Thea doesn’t know who he is.

Which is not to say that he hasn’t opened up some, especially after Moira’s attempted attack on the Glades. He’s spent more time with her, these past couple of months, but each additional hour spent with her brother only gives Thea that much more insight into how much he’s changed. They’d watched a comedy together three or four days ago, and Thea had ended up watching her brother more than the movie, startled to find herself unable to remember the last time he’d laughed – truly _laughed_ , not just the small chuckles and soft grins he lets out around her sometimes.

Her occasional nightmares about Oliver and her father drowning have mostly been replaced by her imagination’s gruesome interpretations as to how, exactly, Oliver had gotten his many scars. Five years, and she knows so little about it.

After sobering up and community service, after dating Roy and learning of her mother’s plot, Thea now knows she’s grown from the kid she’d been when Oliver had first gotten home. She knows she hadn’t approached him in the best way. But she hasn’t lost her curiosity. She still wants to know the same things she’d wanted to know back then.

And she desperately wants to talk about anything but Moira.

As the microwave finishes, she grabs her dish without bothering to check its temperature and moves to join Oliver at the table, sliding into the booth opposite him. Her plate emits a subtle thud as it settles on the table and she pokes the food with her fork, staring at her brother across the table.

“What did you eat over there?” she finds herself asking bluntly, unable to hold the question back. That, at least, has to be a safe question, doesn’t it?

Oliver pauses in his meal, freezes but doesn’t flinch, and Thea doesn’t think that’s too bad of a reaction. (But she can’t read Oliver, not anymore, so the truth is she isn’t really sure how he’s reacting. He hides it like he does almost every other aspect of his life.)

“Whatever I could,” he says slowly after a moment, watching her carefully, fork still frozen in place just above his bowl. “There were vegetables and berries. Some… birds. Like chicken almost. Fish.”

Thea might not be able to read Oliver anymore, and she might not have any idea of which questions Oliver will be able to handle and which ones he won’t, but in the ten months or so he’s been home she’s at least learned how to stop pushing him.

She nods at the information, like it’s any other conversation, and, since he’s given her something, offers something in return.

“I’m not going with you,” she says plainly, looking down to spear a piece of chicken on her fork.

Out of the corner of her eye, Oliver’s shoulders relax oh so slightly, something she never would have noticed if she hadn’t specifically been looking for it.

“It’s been three months, Thea,” he says.

“You mean there’s a statute of limitations on trying to murder people now?” Thea bites out, bitter and fierce and sharp as the blade still resting on the cutting board behind her. She’s not even sure if she’s reacting to her brother’s relief about the topic change, giving him what he wants, or if she’s really that angry.

(No, she knows the truth. She’s furious. She wants to scream and cry and rage at her mother because Thea’s never harbored any illusions that she’s a good person, but she doesn’t _hurt_ people and how could Moira, how could she even _consider –)_

“She’s our mother, Thea,” Oliver interrupts her spiraling thoughts, not even blinking, “and it’s because of her that –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Thea cuts in, scowling, her rage under control again. She’s heard it all before. She’d given Oliver a peace offering, and she’s glad that it had distracted him from whatever terrible thing it is about the island that he doesn’t like thinking about, but she’s done with this conversation too. “Anyway, Walter said that you could join us for dinner tonight, if you wanted to.”

Oliver doesn’t blink at the change in conversation either, just inhales deeply for a moment, then shakes his head. “I already have plans,” he says, “but thank him for me.” And that’s the end of that discussion.

* * *

* * *

_August 20, 2013, night:_

As soon as the last trace of the sun sinks below the horizon, stars struggling to shimmer through Star City’s light pollution, Oliver wastes no time in tracking down Detective Lance, leaving Verdant as soon as the streetlights outside flicker on.

Lance, for once, seems to be expecting him. He’s in the alley behind his usual precinct, pacing back and forth in the dim lighting. If this had been one of those crime movies Oliver’d watched with Thea a few weeks back, he’d almost expect to see a cigarette between the detective’s lips.

But alcohol had been Lance’s vice after he’d lost his daughter, not nicotine, and it is vitriol that spews from his lips instead, passionate and ablaze.

“There you are!” he snarls at the Arrow, as soon as Oliver drops to the alley before him. “One of my officers is in the hospital because of you! We’ve got seven thugs from two rival gangs who claim they were only at the docks to hang out, that _you_ attacked them first and they were only fighting back in self-defense, and, oh yeah, absolutely no evidence because you let the drugs get away!”

Oliver stands stock still and takes the anger, because he can, and because he’d rather the detective let his rage out on him, instead of an innocent bystander (and because Oliver _had_ left last night, when perhaps he should have stayed).

At the Green Arrow’s lack of response, Lance snorts and turns away (which, contrary to his skeptical and bitter words, is a show of trust; in the beginning, Lance never would have turned his back on Oliver in costume). “I forgot, you don’t care about little things like collateral damage, do you?” he says scornfully.

Oliver ignores that too, the same way he’s ignoring the wound in his leg. “How is Officer Lazarov?” He’s got the big picture, from Felicity’s backdoor into the hospital computers, but healing can be as much mental as physical, sometimes.

Besides, he knows that’s really what Lance is angry about. Once upon a time, he would have been glad to hear that the Arrow had stood aside and let the police do their jobs.

Sure enough, Lance shoulders deflate slightly, a heavy breath rising upward out of his lungs. His jaw clenches as he turns back to Oliver. “Awake,” he says, more tired than harsh, and that’s a show of trust too, letting the Green Arrow see his weariness. “He’s a tough officer. He’ll pull through.” Eyes slightly distant, Lance snorts at a memory. “He’s already asking when he’ll be put back in the field. Big fan of yours.”

Oliver feels something twist in his gut at the admission. Lazarov is twenty-six years old, and a bright star without a single demerit on his record as an officer so far. He’s fired his weapon three times on the job, each time considered a justified shooting, none of the shots fatal. The Arrow hasn’t spoken with him the way he has with Hwang, but he’s been keeping an eye on every member of Lance’s new taskforce.

Still, he reminds himself forcibly, hero-worship or no, Lazarov had been doing his job. He would have been there regardless of how he felt about the Green Arrow.

“If I track down the other two men involved in the deal, do you have enough to put them away?” he asks.

Lance seems grateful for the change in conversation. His anger is all but gone. “I’ve got seven guys in custody,” he scoffed, “and a smattering of warrants between them. I’ll get one of them to flip.” He sends Oliver’s shadowed figure a sharp glance. “Wouldn’t mind having the drugs though.”

The Green Arrow nods succinctly. “I’ll see what I can do.” He takes a step back, further into the darkness, intending to leave, but Lance isn’t quite done it seems.

“About… about that explosion last night,” he says, “I read the report but, anybody in there?”

It’s as close to an apology as Oliver’s ever going to get, an acknowledgement of where he’d gone and why he’d left last night. And a guess too, because even though there was a lot of evidence supporting the theory (Oliver _had_ left the moment after the explosion) Oliver had never said where he’d gone.

Another sign of trust.

“It was empty. Nobody on the street,” Oliver confirms.

Lance nods once, looking like he wants to say something more, then turns and strides back toward the police station.

Oliver watches him go for a moment, yet again aware of how strange it is that he doesn’t have to hurry into the shadows. How strange it is that Lance so easily turns his back on him. He doesn’t spend too long thinking about it. There’s work to do.

* * *

A sweep of the docks reveals nothing that the police might have missed, but Oliver slips into the boathouse using nothing more than rudimentary lockpicking skills and downloads all the records of incoming and outgoing boats that have docked there by simply using the password taped to the bottom of the keyboard. Maybe the Bertinellis have used these waters before. While he works, he knows Felicity and Digg are looking into where the boat might be now, and the two men who’d been on it.

Restlessness burns within Oliver, Lance’s anger having sparked his embers of regret into a proper flame, but he holds himself back from checking in on his teammates, knowing he’ll snap in anger when he hears they have nothing. It’s not their fault he left the docks. It’s not their fault Lazarov got hurt. They’ll let him know when they have something.

Tucking the USB with the docking information tight against his chest, Oliver sinks into his bike, hunkering down low and tight as he helps the engine roar away from the docks. Patrol usually helps him when he’s feeling restless, but he can tell it won’t tonight. He’s not wound tight because he feels helplessly lost in the sheer breadth of the city’s ills but because he’d been the one to screw up this time.

Wandering the streets, hoping to come across someone to take his anger out on, is far too slow. He needs to do something, and he doesn’t want to return to the foundry to Digg and Felicity’s knowing looks as he takes his anger out on his equipment. (And however much the criminals he targets usually deserve his anger, Oliver knows any random carjacker he might come across doesn’t deserve to spend six months or so in the hospital. Tonight, he might not be able to hold back.)

He races for the site of the second explosion instead, rubber burning beneath him as darkened storefronts race by. There are few other cars on the streets of the Glades at this time of night, but Oliver still sticks to back alleys and dimly lit corridors, more for the need of the challenge of the sharp turns than out of any desire to avoid being seen. (He can’t hide from every traffic cam in the city.)

The news was quick to catch on to the fact that the second explosion happened along the same gas line as the first, so thousands of the city’s residents are now clamoring for more regulation into the old infrastructure that sits beneath them. And Oliver’s not going to argue with that. He knows the Glades could use the updates, and not just the gas lines but the plumbing and electric as well.

But he’s still not sure he believes the explosions are actually gas leaks.

Two explosions in poor neighborhoods with longer response times from the authorities is fishy enough, even if those neighborhoods _are_ the most likely to have leaks anyway, but factor in the timing of the explosions and the improbability of it all jumps straight to suspicious. Maybe not to anyone else, but Oliver’s moved the explosions up from something to investigate when he has the time to a priority.

What are the chances that, of the two gas leaks that had exploded in the Glades, both buildings had been empty at the time, destroyed in the middle of the night?

In the darkness of the city at two in the morning, Oliver roots through the rubble of the location of the second explosion, not quite sure what he’s looking for. Even though he can throw together a rudimentary bomb out of spare parts if the occasion calls for it, he’s not an explosives expert. And the investigators have already searched the rubble.

Still, Oliver goes through it methodically, piece by piece, creating a grid in his mind, until he’s certain that there’s nothing that he’s going to find tonight and that the anger simmering under his skin has settled slightly. Enough that he won’t snap at his friends if they don’t have any good news for him.

“Any news on the boat or its occupants?” he asks, just to be certain as he clicks on his comm.

“Nothing yet,” Digg replies. “You know how the Bertinellis have been about electronics lately.”

Oliver does – it had been why they hadn’t managed to get too much information about the drug deal, because Honeycutt’s been instructing Pino to stay away from anything that could be hacked and keeping most information secure in his own mind instead of committing it to paper.

It’s not what Oliver had wanted to hear, but it was what he’d expected to.

“The explosions,” he starts instead, changing topics, looking for another outlet for the tension beneath his flesh, “what insurance company did the two businesses use?”

“Uh… let me check.”

A minute passes silently, then Digg gives Oliver the information he’d been hoping for: they’d had the same insurance company. Could be nothing, could be a coincidence, could just be that the company offered really good rates for small businesses. But it’s something to look into, something to do.

Anticipating what Oliver’s going to say next, Digg follows up his information with the address of the company’s nearest office as well.

Oliver signs off with a quick “thanks” and a new lead and an outlet for the self-loathing threatening to explode inside him.

* * *

* * *

_August 21, 2013, early afternoon:_

It’s been a rough couple of days, Quentin can’t help but think bitterly as he flutters around his small kitchen, attempting to scrounge up something resembling an appropriate breakfast. Lunch. Whatever the hell you call it when you get home at four in the damn morning, wake up after a scant six hours of sleep, and don’t actually eat anything until after one.

He wants a beer, but that’s a terrible idea if he’s ever heard one, and anyway, he’s not going to lose his sobriety over the _Arrow_. That’d be just the thing, wouldn’t it?

His fridge is old and scuffed and filled with little more than boxes of leftover take-out and condiments stuffed in the shelves on the door. He grabs a lemonade, one of those sickeningly sweet concoctions that somehow also manages to be mouth-puckeringly sour. Laurel wouldn’t be pleased with him, but he grabs a box of Chinese take-out that has vegetables in it, so. Good enough for him.

He shuffles back over to the microwave. God but what a wreck the last couple of days have been. A shootout with members of two different gangs. Lazarov, in the hospital. Another gas leak, and yeah, that’s not really a police matter but it’s still a threat to his city and, hey, if the vigilante was seen there then it _is_ a police matter after all!

Goddamn Arrow.

Quentin runs a tired hand over his face as the microwave spins in front of him, trying to remember back to a time before the world seemed to be plagued by vigilantes. Simpler times. But he doesn’t mean it, not really. He’s got Jasper Honeycutt in his holding cells and that’s thanks to the Arrow, and he knows it.

The microwave dings, pulling Quentin’s concentration back to the present moment. He grabs the dish without thinking, wincing at the heat of the ceramic against his fingertips and almost dropping it, setting it down on the counter far too quickly. Shit.

What Quentin wouldn’t give to just prop his feet up on his coffee table, lean back on his couch, and watch some of the taped MBA games that’ve been waiting for him. He’s been so caught up in working the last few days that he doesn’t even know how the Rockets are doing, hasn’t even had time to chat about it with the guys (and girls) at the station.

But his four to midnight shift yesterday had ended at three in the morning because some idiot in a green hoodie had been trying to fight muggers on his street, and it doesn’t matter that Quentin knows there is no way in Hell that the kid has anything to do with the actual Green Arrow. It’s a vigilante crime, and that falls under his purview now. So he’d had to split his team, and send some people to the hospital to talk to the wanna-be hero with three broken ribs and a fractured wrist, and some people to survey the crime scene, and some people to question the wanna-be muggers, and some people to investigate the wanna-be hero’s apartment in case he was a real vigilante with, you know, actual equipment and things, and some people to talk to the kid’s family and friends, in case anyone else was involved, and someone _else_ to dig through old police reports in case this wasn’t the kid’s first offense and…

And Quentin didn’t have that many people in his barely-three-month-old taskforce, which had meant _delegation_ and _prioritization_ and staying _three hours_ past the end of his shift to effectively say _kid’s an idiot with no clue of what he’s doing, no vigilante connection_ , which he’d already known when he’d gotten the call, but he’d had to _prove_ because the captain – who’d already _gone home_ – had wanted to be able to reassure the city that there were no other green-hooded vigilantes running around. Wanted to reassure the mayor, more like it. 

Goddamn copycats.

All of which was to say that he hadn’t gotten anything done that he’d actually _wanted_ to do, and Jasper Honeycutt and his friends are still rotting in Quentin’s holding cells, and Quentin still has a list of names generated by Malcolm Merlyn of white-collar criminals (and maybe a bit more than that) that his superiors are still waffling over what to do with.

Instead of relaxing on his sofa, Quentin takes the still-steaming bowl over to his kitchen table, clearing just enough space to set it down next to his lemonade. He’s not supposed to take sensitive police files home, so the paper and folders scattered in messy piles in front of him are mostly his notes, things he wants to check up on or look into, ideas he has for targeting certain individuals.

Honeycutt and his friends he can hold based on the shootout alone. He doesn’t care if they claim self-defense, and that the Arrow started it – they still shot at _cops_ for Christ’s sake. They’re not going anywhere. (He’d like to get them on more than that though.)

The _List_ on the other hand, well… that’s a bit more complicated. It’d’ve been one thing if the Arrow had just given him a list of names he thought were criminals, or even just the same list. But it was another thing to have given Quentin that list _and_ given it to the _Register_. Now the whole damn city knows they’ve got the thing and they’re screaming at the police to use it, or share it, or throw it away because _of course_ you can’t trust Malcolm Merlyn. And that’s not even going into all the “concerned sponsors” of the police department, regular donors expressing concern – not because they think they’re on the list though, of course not.

Quentin’s trying to ignore it, and just focus on the names, because politics aren’t his thing, but he’s the detective in charge of the vigilante task force. It’s getting harder for him to ignore that sort of thing.

He _knows_ he can use the List as an excuse to pay a few people a visit, if only under the guise of “hey, pretty sure the Arrow might be targeting you, mind if we have a look around”, but that’s not the same as getting a warrant and, oh yeah, it kind of alerts the bastards to the fact that they’re on the List.

He _thinks_ he can maybe use the List to get a few warrants, but only on guys they already have their eyes on, and only from a sympathetic judge, but he’s only supposed to be investigating vigilante related crimes these days, and the taskforce has its hands full, so he’s not sure that’s the best way to go about things.

Which leaves sharing the names with some of his fellow officers. Telling them who to keep an eye on, letting those who are investigating white collar crimes know they’re on the right track. It’s not much, but it’s something to start with, until his captain, or, you know, the higher ups, decide what to do with the damn thing.

The only question is, who’s trustworthy enough to share it with?

Quentin settles down with his take-out and his lemonade and piles and piles of badly ordered notes and gets to work. He’s gotta be back at the station in less than three hours and he wants a concrete plan by then.

* * *

* * *

_August 23, 2013, night:_

The next three days are spent on research into the Bertinelli’s hangouts and the men on the boat and the boat itself and the information Oliver had taken from the insurance company for the two businesses that have blown up. Oliver and Digg have taken to spending their afternoons in the foundry, sifting through data, and when Felicity comes in Oliver hits the streets, sifting through buildings instead, tracking down the drug dealers and drugs inch by inch. But Friday night, it’s not any of those problems that catches their attention.

_“Call just came in,”_ Digg relays quickly to Oliver, with an urgency and a speed that tells him it’s something important. _“A woman just beat up a guy on Henry, somewhere between West 54 th and Ocean View. Blonde, dressed in black and wielding a staff. Ambulance has already picked the guy up.” _

Oliver’s already moving before Diggle finishes speaking, though he doubts he’ll make it in time. Between the time of the attack and the police being alerted, and between the police arriving on scene and interviewing the witness, his response time isn’t exactly immediate, but there’s always a slim chance that the other vigilante might have stuck around.

“Copy,” he breathes out over the roar of the bike, bent low for speed, and doesn’t bother to ask if Digg’s made the same connection he had with their conversation from five days ago. Digg wouldn’t have passed along the information if he hadn’t.

Oliver parks his bike out of sight, climbs to the rooftops, and runs toward the crime scene. Not a full out sprint, but he needs enough speed to jump the gaps over a few alleys anyway, so he’s not exactly moving slowly. It’s a warm August night, heavy with humidity in one of those last bursts of warm summer weather, and he’s sweating slightly beneath the hood when he comes to a stop, though not enough to smear his face paint.

Pausing above the crime scene, he sweeps his gaze over the surrounding buildings. The full moon has come and gone, and this area of the Glades isn’t very well lit, especially not three stories off the ground. It’s hard to say whether or not there’s anyone hiding in some of the nearby shadows. There’s nobody out in the open, at the very least, and Oliver’s already lost the element of surprise. If anyone was hidden before, there’s little chance he’ll catch them now.

Not that he’d expected to.

The alleyway below him is cordoned off with police tape, but there’s little else to indicate that someone had been attacked there. Maybe there’s some blood, but it’s hard to tell on the dark asphalt. Oliver doubts anything he might see will point him in anyway toward the other vigilante.

_“Twice is coincidence,”_ he can remember Felicity saying, “ _three points and you’ve got a data set._ ” Well, he’s got his third data point. There’s definitely someone else with a vendetta roaming the Glades at night. But Oliver won’t find anything here to help with that. He almost leaves, and only a glimpse of one of the police officers on the ground below him convinces Oliver to stay.

He crouches low over the edge of the building he stands on, frowning. Now what would the vigilante task force be doing at what probably looks like a random mugging? Lance’s been passing along tidbits of information here and there since the Undertaking, things he thinks the Arrow might want to look into, but Oliver’d just talked to him three days ago and he hadn’t questioned the Arrow about another vigilante in the city.

Then again, this _is_ the third data point. Maybe they’re only just now putting things together themselves. Or maybe Oliver’s overthinking it, and, based on the way Lance has been grumbling, the taskforce is simply being set out on any case involving someone attacking someone else in the name of justice. Oliver knows the taskforce has already handled a few Good Samaritan cases, one-time heroics of someone being in the right place at the right time that had nothing to do with vigilantism (and one or two would-be vigilantes too, on top of that).

There’s only one way to find out for sure, and luckily, Oliver’s pretty sure he knows exactly how the officer below him will react to his appearance.

Emily Hwang is younger, younger than Oliver at only twenty-five, but Lance had been right when he’d vouched for her – she is good. And when the Green Arrow had confronted her face to face the first time only a few days ago, she’d started and gone for her gun (as she should have) but she’d also had enough of her wits about her not to fire randomly into the shadows. She’d had questions for him too, questions she hadn’t seemed remotely afraid of asking, no matter how unwilling to engage in conversation the Arrow had been in return.

It’ll take her a while to get used to him the way Lance has, Oliver figures, but so far she seems trustworthy and it never hurts to cultivate sources and connections. He watches her movements for a few minutes, smirking when she heads down a side alley, flashlight in one hand and gun in the other as she sweeps her surroundings for anything not in the immediate crime scene. Quickly and quietly, Oliver heaves himself off the rooftop and climbs down to the thick concrete below. His boots land silently, toes hitting the ground first, knees bent in just the right way to absorb the impact.

Hwang doesn’t turn, doesn’t notice a thing (Oliver would count that as a point against her, except that that had been his intention, and he knows exactly how good he is at moving in the shadows). In the main alley behind them, her partner continues his own canvassing, equally as unaware.

“Officer Hwang,” Oliver growls out in a low tone, bow held loosely at his side.

She flinches, instincts forcing her to turn toward him in a quick swivel, raising her gun, but her brain catches up rapidly, before she either shoots or calls out for her partner.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says, no annoyance or judgement, just fact. She lowers her gun again, and the flashlight too, not even attempting to shine it in Oliver’s face. (His estimation of her rises another notch, though he does think she might be trusting him too much.) “You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?” she asks.

It’s that, more than anything, that had kept Oliver’s interest in her. Plenty of officers have good records that hint at promising careers. Plenty of officers these days would probably even be willing – or perhaps eager – to work with the Green Arrow. But he’s not sure he’d be able to find anyone else who exhibits her casual acceptance of his existence, and her willingness to ask him questions (even questions that might upset him, if he truly were a trigger-happy madman) without fear. She doesn’t seem to be afraid of him, unlike Lance who – however much he may trust him now – is still carefully wary, or even Tommy and Digg and Felicity, who will all tense or flinch away from him (however unconsciously) when he’s in a bad mood.

Of course, Hwang has yet to see him in a bad mood.

The Green Arrow doesn’t answer her question, but her only response to that is an eye roll, barely visible in the shadows her downcast light creates. “Right,” she says, like his silent routine is patently ridiculous. “Well we’ve got nothing either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

(She trusts him far too much, Oliver can’t help but think again, to give up such information so freely. He’s not sure what he ever could have done to earn that trust.)

“There have been similar attacks,” is all the Arrow responds, still low and quiet.

She doesn’t question how he got the information. (If he’s honest, Oliver is more worried about this woman _over_ estimating what the Green Arrow is capable of, rather than underestimating. It’s a strange thought to have about a cop.)

“Maybe,” she agrees casually, turning her back on him slightly as she continues to sweep the alley walls while they talk. “But they’re not definitively linked.”

So she is aware of the other attacks then. Oliver really hopes she doesn’t turn her back on everyone she runs into in dark alleys, but he also doesn’t think she would have gotten as far as she has if that was the case. Either way, she’s told him all she knows, he figures. He wonders how much of it was intentional. Something tells him, despite her casual nature, that Hwang’s every word is always considered twice before spoken.

His hand almost twitches towards a grappling arrow before he carefully stills himself. He doubts the flashiness of such an exit would intimidate or impress this officer in any way. Instead he simply fades back into the shadows while her back is turned and makes his way out of the alley when she isn’t paying attention. Next time she turns, there’ll be nothing for her to see.

* * *

Back at his bike, Oliver asks Felicity to get him Roy’s current location, then makes his way across town to where the young man is hanging out. He lurks for a few moments, evaluating how likely Roy will be separating from his friends any time soon, but he doesn’t have to wait long before the kid goes his own way.

Like Hwang, Roy flinches when Oliver lands on the alley floor in front of him, but unlike her he doesn’t have a weapon to reach for. And unlike her, he seems glad to see Oliver, expression lighting up slightly as he realizes who’s in front of him. They haven’t talked (at least, not that Roy’s aware of) since Roy had called Oliver with the information about the docks.

“Good call on the docks,” Oliver says shortly, not giving Roy time to reply. “I need you to do something for me.” He could have just called, but the phones are mostly so the others can get in touch with him, not the other way around. He has an image to maintain, and there are some things that are best handled in person.

“Of course,” Roy says eagerly, taking an almost unconscious step forward. “I’m sorry I haven’t found more information yet but –”

“Harper.” Oliver’s tone convinces Roy to stop talking, and the kid takes a deep breath, moving from his initial shock and awe into something more resembling calm professionalism. (He’s not there quite yet, but he’s learning how to listen.) “There’s another vigilante in the city,” Oliver continues. “A woman.”

Roy nods once but doesn’t interrupt.

“Don’t approach her,” Oliver says, “but any information you can find…”

“I’ll call you,” Roy promises.

Oliver glances him over from head to foot, searching for any injuries, but it seems like Roy’s kept true to his word so far and is keeping himself out of trouble. It’s hard to tell, what with the hoodie and jeans Roy is wearing, but even when he hadn’t known the Green Arrow had been watching him Roy hadn’t moved like he was injured.

It’s Oliver’s turn to nod and he stands to the side to let Roy continue in the direction he’d been going before the Green Arrow had interrupted him. He doesn’t need theatrics with Roy either, but for the entirely opposite reason he’d refrained around Hwang: Roy already thinks too much of him. Oliver needs to show him that the Arrow is just as human as he is. He doesn’t need the hero worship.

After a moment’s pause, Roy moves forward, walking past the Green Arrow and turning out of sight. He doesn’t look backward, but from the tenseness of his shoulders and neck Oliver’s sure he’s only holding himself back because _he_ wants to seem somewhat impressive.

Unlike Hwang, Roy _is_ afraid of the Green Arrow. Not so much of what Oliver _could_ do to him, but of what Oliver _would_ do to him, if he ever screwed up. He’s afraid of failing the Green Arrow, of seeing familiar disappointment in his hero.

He’s got a lot of control over the kid’s life, Oliver knows, and he’s going to have to be careful. With Roy looking up to him so completely the Green Arrow could crush or elevate his dreams with only a few cruel or kind words. Oliver knows he’ll never be much of a mentor – he thinks back to Yao Fei and Shado and Slade, the Yamishiro’s, even Waller and Anatoli; he’d learned a lot from all of them, but most of their methods aren’t exactly applicable to teaching a poor kid from Star City’s worst streets.

Besides, Roy is just as young as Oliver had been when he’d shipwrecked on Lian Yu. There’s no way Oliver plans to drag him any further into his world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10: Duplicity, should be up August 26th.
> 
> Thanks for reading and keep letting me know what you think!


	10. Duplicity

_August 26, 2013, morning:_

“What?!”

“Keep your voice down!” Laurel hisses, glancing around the office. They’re in a secluded corner at the moment, filling their coffee cups, but a few heads have reflexively jerked their way at Jo’s outburst. “I should have told you after work,” she mutters unhappily, more to herself than to her friend.

Their coworkers return to their own work. Jo just stares at her, as if seeing her for the first time. “I’m sorry?” she asks, indignant and amazed all at once. Her fingers are tight on the warm mug she holds, her eyes wide and lips parted slightly. “You’re still working with the _Green Arrow_ and you’re only just now telling me?”

But her friend keeps her voice down, however incredulous she is at the moment, and Laurel’s shoulders relax slightly. She glances around again anyway just to ensure it doesn’t look like anyone is listening in.

“I didn’t think you’d approve,” she says quickly. Not after what had happened, even if Jo still calls him the city’s guardian angel. “But that’s not the point right now.”

“ _Not the point!_ ” Jo repeats in a low hiss, leaning forward toward Laurel.

Laurel just shakes her head, pushing past it. “It’s a long story,” she interrupts, “and I’ll tell it to you later, I promise. But right now we need to talk about what to do about this.” She brandishes the list of names in her hand, the entire reason for their conversation, printed from the file the Arrow had given her ten days ago.

“Uh uh, we are not doing this here,” Jo disagrees, leaning back again. “I’m gonna need a drink, and somewhere where I can be a bit louder.”

Laurel grits her teeth, but another glance around the office reminds her of how foolish it had been of her to bring up the topic at work anyway. “My apartment, tonight,” she offers.

Jo glances at the stack of papers in Laurel’s hand, then nods. “I still can’t believe you didn’t _tell me_ ,” she repeats.

Laurel’s honestly not sure if she’s more hung up on the secrecy then the fact that Laurel had resumed meeting with the Green Arrow. She doesn’t get the chance to respond regardless as Mark joins them at the small counter, there to refill his own mug. He raises an eyebrow at the two of them, expression asking ‘do I want to know?’

“Tough case,” Laurel answers, meeting Jo’s gaze and jerking her head back to their desks.

“Aren’t they all?” Mark asks as the two of them step away.

Laurel huffs in entirely unamused laughter. If only he knew the half of it.

* * *

A mistake spotted in a crucial file almost too late for their client keeps half of CNRI late – including her and Jo, sending tense glances at each other over their coworker’s heads as the hours fly by. By the time they make it to her apartment, Tommy’s already putting dinner on the table (half home-cooked from frozen foods, half take-out – Tommy’s still not much of a chef).

He glances between the two of them and picks up on the tension in the room immediately. (They’d had to drive separately, and Jo’s practically vibrating with the questions that must be piling up inside her.) “You told her about the List,” he guesses plainly.

Laurel shoots a glance over at Jo, who looks nervous but determined, needing to know the truth. “Yeah,” she admits, feeling slightly guilty. She’s already shared the facts of the Arrow’s most recent visit with Tommy, including the list of names he’d given her, but it’d taken her a few days. She hadn’t told him that she was going to tell Jo. (Truthfully, though, she hadn’t even known if she was going to tell Jo.)

Tommy looks down at the food he’s set out, and the two plates he’s set with it. “Is this a dinner conversation or do you two need some alone time?” he asks.

Laurel’s stomach growls in answer, but that doesn’t entirely mask her guilty feelings. Tommy shouldn’t feel like he can’t be a part of this. But her friends don’t pick up on her guilt, grinning instead at the small sound.

“We could use some food,” Jo says, smiling at Laurel’s boyfriend, who she’s really only just starting to get to know. (During their on and then off again phases, Laurel hadn’t been quite ready to introduce Tommy to the CNRI crowd, though she’d certainly talked about him with Jo and a few of the others.)

Tommy just nods and fetches another place setting and a third wine glass.

Jo throws Laurel a glance. “So,” she says, “you told Hot Stuff about the Green Arrow already.”

“I believe that’s objectification,” Tommy says calmly, not looking over from where he’s rummaging through Laurel’s – their – silverware drawer. It’s a bit of a running joke between the three of them, ever since Tommy had overheard Jo tell Laurel that her ‘hot friend’ had showed up at CNRI looking for her.

“Yeah, I told him,” Laurel answers, taking a seat as Jo does the same. “I… I had to tell someone, and Tommy’s met the Green Arrow too.” And he’s her boyfriend. And she loves him. (She _loves_ him. In a non-platonic manner. The thought isn’t as startling as it once was.)

Jo stares, shifting her gaze to Tommy as he hands her her dishes. “You’re telling me I’m the only person at this table who _hasn’t_ met Star City’s hero?”

Tommy shrugs uneasily. “I… Laurel’s the one you should be looking at – he actually asked her for help. I just… I only ran into him in the first place because of… of my dad.”

As Tommy takes his own seat at the table, the silence is awkward and heavy, and Laurel gives her boyfriend’s hand a comforting squeeze. Malcolm rarely gets mentioned between them these days, and Tommy’s yet to stop looking pained on those rare occasions he is.

Jo swallows, looks vaguely apologetic, and abruptly changes the topic. “He asked you for help again?” she says, turning to Laurel. “I thought he told you to stay away?”

She shrugs. “He did. Aside from when he gave me the List, I hadn’t seen him in months.” She’s being more modest than maybe she should – she’d resolved to tell Jo everything, after all – but she’s not quite ready to revisit all those shadowed face to face conversations. Or the brutality of the prison fight, the terror of her kidnapping, or the horror of seeing the earthquake device at Merlyn Manor. And that last part is Tommy’s story to tell anyway.

For all the good Green Arrow has done, violence cloaks him like the shadows he lurks in, and Laurel’s still carefully wary of the man, however much she believes in him.

“And he just, what? Gave you the List and told you to start working with him again?”

Laurel shakes her head. “No. He… He said it was my choice. Said that he was giving me the List, but if I didn’t want anything to do with him I could destroy the phone.”

“He gave you a phone again too?” Jo asks, before she lowers her tone. “Does your dad know?”

“I haven’t told him.” And Laurel doesn’t know if she will. Quentin is working with the Arrow now, for the most part, but she’s not certain that’s enough to offset the danger she might be in. Not in his eyes, at least.

Jo eyes her uncertainly, as if she doesn’t know what she thinks Laurel should do either. She’s always been wary of Laurel’s participation, even while she’s lauded the Green Arrow for what he did for the city.

“So,” Tommy starts, scooping vegetables onto his plate, “have you decided what to do with the List yet?”

The topic change is obvious, but it works. Jo squares her shoulders and gives Laurel a look. “I haven’t even _seen_ it yet,” she counters, forcing lightness into her tone.

The tension breaks. They laugh, and Laurel pulls out the list of names in her purse. The three of them dig into the meal Tommy partially prepared, pouring themselves small glasses of wine.

They flip through the sheets Laurel printed between bites, pointing out names they recognize, people CNRI has targeted – or attempted to, at least. Though Laurel has had some victories, and her coworkers too, not every scumbag CNRI has gone after has been caught. The men and women on the list in front of them have too much power, too much influence, to not weasel their way out of trouble more often than not.

Laurel’s been handed too many settlements, or dismissals entirely, when it comes to the names she recognizes.

But the three of them do more than just discuss the names – they discuss what to do with them, who to tell.

“Targeting everyone on this list would take lifetimes, Laurel,” Jo points out when it becomes clear her friend is willing to handle each fight personally. “Even if all of CNRI dedicated themselves to it.”

Laurel grits her teeth in frustration; she _knows_ that, but she doesn’t like hearing it.

“Which leaves us with our other options,” Tommy points out, cutting off her frustration. “The news hasn’t leaked it yet, the police haven’t leaked it. Should we?”

Moving past her frustration that some of the people on the list might never get what’s coming to them, Laurel focuses on Tommy’s question. The _yet_ is a good modifier, even if the media has good reason not to release it; the list was put together by someone, after all, whether the Arrow or otherwise, someone with grudges and friends. There’s no way to prove how subjective the list is. The names she recognizes are bad people, yes, but what about the ones she doesn’t? If there’s even one person on the list who doesn’t deserve to be there, whose name would be ruined by its release, then Laurel cannot, in good conscience, release the list.

But with the outcry from Star City the past week, Laurel’d be surprised if the media manages to hold out forever, or even just until the end of the month.

Still, to target only individuals one by one seems too slow of a method.

She shakes her head, unknowingly clenching her fork in her hand. “We _can’t_ ,” she says, her desperation clear in her tone.

Jo picks up on what she means instantly. “What if someone on the list is innocent?” she agrees.

Tommy glances between them, picking up on their frustration. “Well, who would believe us anyway, if we leaked it?” he asks, trying to lighten the mood.

Laurel and Jo both smile slightly at the attempted joke.

“He’s got us there,” Jo admits.

Laurel can’t help but agree, even if that frustrates her too. “Alright then,” she says. “What other options do we have?”

* * *

* * *

_August 27 – September 5, 2013:_

Time trickles by. Oliver manages to track down the men on the boat and turn them over to Lance, but the drugs are long gone, probably hidden by Pino himself. The investigation into the insurance companies of the destroyed buildings goes nowhere too; one of the stores had very clearly not needed the money, and the other had been the owner’s pride and joy, by all accounts. Even if they had been desperate, Oliver judges it unlikely that they would have destroyed their own store to settle any debts (though they both had more than enough insurance to start over again, so he keeps the thought in the back of his mind).

In between those two investigations, the Arrow surveilles and threatens another member of the List, and the police target one too. The police files Felicity accesses lets them know that said individual was already a target and he’d apparently let something slip in a fit of rage that had been enough for a warrant when they’d told him he was on the List, but it’s something, at the very least. It means they’re not completely ignoring the list of criminals he’d handed to them.

The city increases gas line inspections; the people clamor for more information about the names on the List, a group of misguided but impassioned activists break into the _Register,_ getting away with nothing but their freedom; the Bertinelli’s crawl back into hiding, laying low for the time being. Laurel doesn’t contact the vigilante, but Tommy mentions off-hand one night that she’s been talking things over with one of her friends and coworkers, Joanne de la Vega. (Oliver’s already looked into her.) The man the two of them had been in the process of suing had decided to settle out of court, probably because he suspected he was on the List, and had promptly donated significant sums to different Glades restoration projects before leaving town.

He’s not the only one percenter to leave the city either, though most of them stay. (Leaving is practically a confession, and they all know it, even if some of them are too scared to stay.) Donations to charities tick upward for a short while, before that too begins to be seen as a sign of guilt. Oliver hopes it doesn’t convince people to stop donating entirely.

With the increase in gas line inspections, Oliver starts putting a few things in motion to hold a fundraiser for the city with the idea of increasing electric line and plumbing inspections as well as just general maintenance. A tentative date gets set for early October.

Talks with his mother and her lawyer go smoothly if coolly, with Thea still refusing to visit and Oliver keeping Moira at arm’s length. He still loves her, and he can even forgive her, but he’s not ready to trust her, and not sure if he will be for a long time yet to come.

Around the end of August, Queen Consolidated’s lobby gets vandalized in the middle of the night. The culprits are just lost and angry kids from the Glades who get caught in less than twenty-four hours without any involvement from the Green Arrow, and the damage isn’t too severe, but the attack is apparently catalyst enough for Digg’s relationship with Carly.

“She’s been asking me to stop guarding you for a while,” Digg admits to Oliver and Tommy both when they take him out drinking the night after his break-up. “Thinks it’s too dangerous. And I… I couldn’t even tell her –” He breaks off, shaking his head.

Guilt surges through Oliver for a moment, because that makes this _his_ fault, but Digg’s not done talking.

“I’m not even sure I would have wanted to tell her,” he continues a few moments later, morose. “She wouldn’t have understood.”

It doesn’t exactly alleviate Oliver’s guilt, but he and Tommy exchange glances behind Diggle’s back and promptly get their friend thoroughly invested in the Rockets game blaring from five different TV screens around the bar.

Digg throws himself into his work the next few days, but he seems to be coping fairly well. He’s been thinking about this for a while, Oliver figures.

In the meantime Queen Consolidated continues its interviews, even inviting Oliver to attend a few. The female vigilante strikes again, putting a fourth would-be attacker in the hospital. Roy calls with a tip about a black-market gambling ring, and it’s a little small scale for the Green Arrow but Oliver handles it anyway when Roy mentions that at least one man had died after arguments had broken out on scene. Even Tommy and Oliver fall into a rhythm of their own, with Tommy stopping by the basement a few minutes every now and again during his breaks at Verdant, but not really involving himself too deeply in the Green Arrow’s business.

Then, September fifth, two days after Oliver and Felicity and Digg learn that the gas companies are still finding shortcuts during their supposed inspections, a third explosion occurs. This time it’s in a residence, a home in the Glades. The building is abandoned, and nobody gets hurt, but it takes firefighters a few hours to put out the blaze that results.

“What if it’s not someone doing it for the money?” Felicity muses, digging into her breakfast burrito as they sit in a local café. It’s just past five in the morning, and she has to be at work in a couple of hours, despite staying up all night. She takes a big sip of her coffee as Oliver and Digg consider the question.

“Well, they’re not doing it to target anyone,” Diggle counters. His own coffee is just as large, the bags under his eyes just as prominent. Both of Oliver’s friends are exhausted; they’d intended to call it quits before three that morning, before the explosion at two-thirty had forced them back onto the job.

“No, look,” Felicity takes another large sip, gulping at the hot liquid before setting it down again. “We’ve been ignoring all the city inspections and whatnot, but what if the investigations _are_ the point. They’ve almost been drawing more attention than the List lately.”

“You think someone’s trying to call attention to the terrible shape the gas lines are in,” Oliver states. He spears another piece of his whole wheat pancakes on his fork (sans syrup, plus raspberries) but doesn’t bring it up to his mouth, listening intently. (They’re tucked in a corner of the café, far enough from any other ears that might overhear them.)

Felicity nods. “I mean, remember that guy back in July? He robbed that convenience store when the police didn’t listen to him, revealing their money laundering in the process. Think about Roy, or even this other vigilante. The Green Arrow has inspired people.”

She’s not wrong there, however much Oliver might wish it wasn’t true; he can think of at least a dozen other instances Felicity hasn’t named. He eats the food already on his fork without tasting it, too focused on their conversation.

“Then we need to start looking into people who already knew about the corruption,” Digg suggests.

“Yeah, a disgruntled employee.”

“Speaking of,” Oliver interjects. He levels looks at both of his friends, across the table from him. They’ve been tossing ideas back and forth for hours, since the actual explosion. Things can wait a bit longer.

“You know, it’s kinda funny that our employer is making us too tired to do our real jobs by keeping us busy with secret jobs,” Felicity muses.

Oliver ignores the comment, but he has thought of that himself; both of the people working for the Green Arrow also technically work for Oliver Queen. He turns to Diggle first, “Take the day off,” then Felicity, “you –”

Felicity rolls her eyes at him. “I know, get some sleep tonight.”

“These explosions are happening weeks apart,” he reminds her anyway, knowing she won’t like staying away regardless of how tired she is, “there’s no rush.”

It’s Diggle’s turn to roll his eyes and he snorts at Oliver. “Let me guess,” he says, “you’re _not_ going to go straight to the foundry and dig into some research as soon as we leave?”

“I need sleep, just like the rest of you,” Oliver says, though it’s true that he can manage with less than his friends and it’s true that he’s only planning to get in an hour or two before jumping back into work.

Diggle and Felicity exchange glances, half amused, half annoyed, but they don’t press.

* * *

* * *

_September 6, 2013:_

They were given a list of the most corrupt people in Star City, and so far, it’s meant absolutely nothing, both for Laurel and the media that still refuse to release it. Their problems with the List are also her problems. They have no way of verifying its accuracy, no way of verifying its authorship. Besides the word of a masked vigilante – with an active arrest warrant of his own – they have no proof that it’s anything more than someone’s grudge list. It doesn’t matter how much Laurel believes the Arrow.

It is absolutely inadmissible evidence in a court of law. There is no chain of custody. Most people probably wouldn’t even consider the names to count as reasonable suspicion, depending on their feelings on the Arrow. And feelings aren’t supposed to be a factor when it comes to the law.

Laurel had known all this, had known the evidence was shaky at best, and yet, she has a list of Star City’s most corrupt _in her hands_. She wants so desperately to do something with it.

She and Jo have discussed showing it to the rest of CNRI but not every crime in the city is committed by someone on the List and, however fond of her her bosses may be, Laurel doubts they would accept a list of names given to her by the vigilante as any sort of proof of corruption. They’d talked about leaking it to the public, they’d talked about targeting the people on it. They’d even thrown out the hair-brained idea of starting their own firm and just going for it.

After almost two weeks of discussion though, they have nothing. No plans that would work, no ideas to put into action. Laurel’s stared a research folder, copied news articles and any other information she could find, but it’s probably all stuff the Arrow has anyway. She’s even considered calling him, asking him what he expected _her_ to do with the information, but that… she’s nowhere near comfortable enough with the vigilante to ask him that sort of question.

Jo has been agonizing over it, and Laurel has been agonizing over it, and even Tommy seems to be at a loss.

Now, as Laurel looks down at the folder in her hand, she realizes exactly why the Arrow had given her the List. He’d already given it to the police, letting them use it to target those on it and as motivation to go after the people they’d already suspected. It’s not even really enough to issue any warrants, but it’s… at the very least, she suspects, it’s an excuse to pay a visit to a few people, even if it’s only on the grounds of that person’s protection. They _are_ being targeted by the Arrow, after all, and, though it’s undoubtedly a small number, Laurel’s willing to be there’s a fair share of millionaires in Star City who’d rather confess everything to the police than face the Green Arrow.

He’d given the List to the press too, letting them share it with the public as they wanted. The Star City Register isn’t willing to release the entire thing, undoubtedly for the same reasons that Laurel isn’t, but the names and faces of every member that the Arrow has already targeted have been blared across Star City for the past month. Most of those not dead at the Dark Archer’s hands or in jail have already fled the city. And with each new one-percenter the Arrow has targeted lately the _Register_ has revealed that they too are on the List.

But he’d also given the List to her.

And today, Duane had handed her the folder currently in her hands for a second look. There’s a dead mother of three whose wife needs help suing for medical malpractice. The folder is thin, the information scarce. There’s little evidence that anything had gone wrong and medical malpractice suits are difficult without concrete proof. The wife insists that the doctor had ignored her and her wife’s concerns, had prescribed medication he shouldn’t have and given treatment that was pointless. It’s her word against his.

With scant evidence, no prior record or previous complaints filed, and very little chance of winning, it’s not a case CNRI would normally take. Duane has done his research – conducted interviews with both the wife and the medical staff, looked into the doctor’s background – and it’s all laid out neatly in the folder. He just needs a second lawyer to agree there’s no grounds for a case before they tell the widow.

Normally, Laurel would give it to him. As bad as she feels for the wife and her children, sometimes, when you’re sick, bad things just happen. Things go wrong.

This time though, she thinks there might be a chance, because she recognizes the name of the doctor.

He’s on the List.

* * *

* * *

_September 7, 2013:_

Despite taking a day off, Felicity has a list of all the employees of all the companies that have gas lines in Star City, as well as everyone involved with the inspections, by Saturday morning. By Saturday afternoon, with the three of them camped out in the basement together, they have a list of people who had filed some sort of complaint in the last ten years over a hundred long.

(“Nobody just jumps straight into blowing things up,” Felicity had commented.)

“What next?” Diggle asks.

“This isn’t just going to be any employee,” Oliver states, “whoever this is, they’re managing to hide whatever they’re using to trigger these explosions.”

“So… maybe a degree in chemistry, or some sort of background in bomb building?”

“Military service,” Digg suggests, “or police work.”

“And no new employees,” Oliver adds. “They know enough about the industry, and about how a real gas leak would occur.”

“Right.” Felicity nods and spins back to her keyboard with determination etched in her face.

* * *

Roy had thought, perhaps, after all his time attempting to track down the Green Arrow, his investigation into this new vigilante would go a bit more quickly, a bit more smoothly. And he is better at gathering information now: he’s pretty sure he’s tracked down almost every sighting of the woman, all the instances where she’d stepped in and stopped a crime from happening. She mainly helps women in trouble, but she’s stopped the odd crime as well: a carjacking, larceny, and a drug deal that Roy’s heard of.

All of it hints that she’s not searching out criminals the way the Green Arrow does, she’s just stopping anything she runs across, but that doesn’t get Roy any closer to finding her. She’s a skilled fighter, usually wielding twin batons or a single staff. She wears all black, including a black mask, and has platinum blonde hair. She operates only out of the Glades, and only at night.

In truth, Roy gathers a fair bit of information, but nothing that will lead him to her. Still, it’s been a couple weeks. He calls the Green Arrow to deliver all the information he has. Tomorrow… tomorrow he’ll start trying to track down “Sin”, a woman who can apparently put him in contact with the vigilante.

* * *

By early afternoon, after the interruptions of lunch and a call from Roy, they’ve narrowed down the list of possible suspects to three people: Joseph Erikson, forty-two, former explosives expert for the construction industry and one of the inspection officers who had complained about his bosses three times about a year ago before falling silent; Alexa Lane, thirty-three, chemical engineer and a pipeline installer in the Glades who’d made five complaints spaced out over the past seven years; and Debra Viramontes, sixty, just a desk worker for the Pacific Gas and Electric company, but a long time employee with access to most of the records and a husband who’d worked on the SCPD bomb squad.

“Do we really think a sixty-year-old woman set off these explosions?” Felicity asks doubtfully, staring down at Viramontes’ photo as she gathers up the three files they’ve printed out.

It’s still too early for Oliver to head out as the Arrow, so they’re getting ready to head out for dinner. They could just order take-out to the club, but they’ve been in the foundry all day and the change of scenery will do Oliver’s friends good. Besides, they’re just going to Diggle’s apartment – they still need to be able to talk privately.

“Why not?” Digg asks, putting away the last of the supplies he’d been using to clean the few guns he has stashed around the basement.

Felicity grimaces. “I mean, I know I shouldn’t judge, but look at her.” She brandishes the file in their direction as they head for the stairs.

Oliver grins slightly, not because he doesn’t think Viramontes is capable but because of Felicity’s revulsion at the idea. “We’ll find out tonight,” he says simply.

Frowning, Felicity tucks the folder safely back into her arms. “I guess. I still think its Erikson.”

“What about Lane?” Diggle counters, holding open the door at the top of the stairs for the three of them. “Or is she too young?”

“Ha, ha, very funny John,” Felicity chides, elbowing him as she passes.

“Ow!” Digg cries out in mock alarm.

Oliver just smirks as he walks by, raising an eyebrow at his bodyguard as if to say, ‘you asked for it’.

Diggle rolls his eyes, and lets the door shut behind him on his way out. “So, who’s picking dinner tonight?”

* * *

Careful perusing of the printed files, and a bit more investigation, reveals that Viramontes had been in San Francisco for a week when the second explosion had occurred, visiting her sister. That leaves Erikson and Lane. Unlike the members of the List though, Oliver can’t just confront these people with an arrow in their faces; at the very least, one of them is completely innocent. What he can do, however, is break into their houses, search through their garages, and download all the data from their computers.

The sun sets just after seven. By nine o’clock, Oliver and Felicity are in the foundry once more.

There had been opportunities for Oliver to sneak into both Erikson’s home and Lane’s apartment, both parties spending their Saturday nights elsewhere, and what he’d found had been telling. There’s no concrete proof, but Lane had had blueprints to several buildings on her computer. It’s not too unrealistic that she would have access to such things, given her job, but Erikson hadn’t had anything, and all three of the targets had been amongst her files.

“You gonna wait for Digg?” Felicity asks.

Digg might not be dating anymore, but he still has a life separate from Oliver, and he’d been called away to help a friend with car trouble before they’d returned to the foundry.

Oliver shakes his head. He’s going to have to be careful, given that Lane is clearly an expert in concealing explosions, but he’s not expecting any real trouble. Back-up shouldn’t be necessary.

* * *

The parking garage for Lane’s apartment (no relation to Lois Lane – Felicity had checked) is dark and poorly lit, lightbulbs flickering here and there with a sickly yellow glow. The concrete muffles sound for the most part, though anything loud enough will echo in the empty space, so Oliver lingers in the shadows, monitoring his breathing until Lane arrives.

She looks to be in a good mood, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans with her brown hair curled and nicely framing her face. Oliver searches her frame for any hint of a weapon, finding none but also knowing there’s no way for him to determine what’s in the purse at her side.

Still, if she owned a gun there would be a record of it, and if there was a record of it Felicity would have found it. There’s a chance, given what she’s doing, that she has one the government isn’t aware of but… From what little Oliver knows about Lane, she’s not a face to face fighter.

“Alexa Lane!” he growls out, loud and angry as he steps out from behind a column of stone. “You have failed this city!”

She flinches badly at his appearance, and his words, stumbling backward. “Wha…” she gapes, tense with fear. She seems lost for words at the sight of the Green Arrow confronting her, arrow aimed at her chest.

“The explosions,” Oliver grinds out, so there’s no doubt in her mind as to why he’s attacking her, “they stop now!”

She shakes her head frantically, eyes wide and face pale in the dim lighting, but when she speaks her voice is defensive. “What are you talking about?”

Oliver takes a menacing step forward. “You know what I mean!”

Lane freezes, swallows, eyes the arrow pointed at her carefully, and then seems to steel her resolve, taking her own step forward even as her limbs tremble at her sides. “Look, I was… I was just trying to help this city,” she says passionately through her terror. “Those gas lines were bad before the tremors, but after? And nobody was even looking at them! This way, they get fixed, and a lot of lives get saved.”

“And what about the innocent lives _you_ put in danger?” Oliver growls.

“I did my homework. Those stores didn’t open for hours, and they never send employees in early. And no one was squatting in that house.”

Some excuse. Oliver takes another menacing step forward. _“And the bystanders?!”_

Lane flushes, badly, guilt overcoming her expression as she takes a step backward again. Her confidence drained, she doesn’t seem to be able to look the Arrow in the hood anymore. “I… I didn’t know the explosion was gonna be that big. I,” she swallows, “I fixed it after the first one. I… I swear I didn’t know.”

And for the first time, Oliver pauses. The emotions seem genuine, and the story holds. The second and third explosions both had been smaller than the first, and earlier in the morning. And he doesn’t doubt that there would have been gas leaks eventually, though whether or not they would have exploded…

“There are other ways to save your city,” he growls instead, not easing up on his bowstring.

Lane snorts, and for a moment seems startled by her own casualness before she recovers. “You think I don’t know that?” she ends up saying. “Other people got that covered. The cops, you, even people who admire what you’re doing. This is my way. I never meant to hurt anyone. And it’s _working,_ isn’t it?”

And that… that rings true too. Oliver’s seen what Lane is talking about, graffiti in honor of the Green Arrow, reports of regular people stepping up when they see something going wrong. Even the vigilante taskforce the SCPD has formed, dedicated to investigating the crimes he brings to their attention.

He can’t deny the thoughts that have been running through his brain since the second explosion: no one had been targeted, no one had intentionally been hurt, and he’d been glad that the city had decided to spend more time and money on its infrastructure (he, as Oliver Queen, is even planning to help them do that). If Oliver brings Lane in, blaming her for the explosions, will all that funding dry up?

The next time an explosion occurs in Star City, will it actually be a gas line explosion, one that could occur at any time of day, with any number of people nearby?

Can he take that chance?

He relaxes his bowstring, pointing his arrow at the floor, and Lane relaxes her shoulders. “If the police track you down, I won’t help you,” he growls harshly.

Relief colors her expression. “Don’t worry, nobody will ever know anything happened other than a gas leak.”

Before she can leave, Oliver speaks again. “Lane. If there’s another explosion in my city, you’ll wish the police had found you.”

She swallows, nods once, turns to go, and then… doesn’t. Instead, she glances back at the Green Arrow, hooded and shadowed and menacing.

“You know,” she says, clearly nervous, “you really do inspire people. If you… if you ever need anything…”

She can’t seem to bring herself to say more, and Oliver doesn’t respond. Her gaze searches his form for a moment, then she swallows again and hurries away into the dark.

Oliver’s mind circulates on her last words for a few moments, struck by the sincerity of them, before his mind catches up to reality and he makes his own departure.

* * *

“You let her go.”

It’s not a question and Oliver braces himself for the wave of criticism that he’s pretty sure will follow the comment, from both of his friends. “I did,” he says plainly. So long ago, Superman had stood face to face with a murderer and given him another chance. Maybe he shouldn’t have, Oliver can’t rightfully say, but he had. And Alexa Lane – she’s no murderer. She’d only wanted to help her city, and, against all odds, she _had_. Arresting her would have only undone her efforts.

“She almost _killed_ people, Oliver,” Felicity emphasizes.

“Almost,” Oliver agrees.

Felicity’s eyes widen slightly; Digg snorts in disdain.

“Attempted murder isn’t enough for you anymore?”

Oliver shifts slightly more toward Digg. “It wasn’t attempted murder; the bombs were never intended to hurt anyone.”

“You can’t honestly say you agree with her methods!”

“I don’t, but arresting her would only undo all the efforts the city has made to improve in the wake of the explosions.”

That, at least, gives Felicity and Diggle pause, but it isn’t long before Diggle speaks again.

“Oliver, this woman is capable of engineering explosions that don’t even look intentional.”

“She won’t be a problem again.”

“You can’t guarantee that!”

Maybe not, but he’s as close as he can be to complete certainty. Lane’s final words still echo in his mind. He shakes his head, not quite sure if he’s trying to dislodge the memory or respond to his partners. “I’m not bringing her to the police, and she doesn’t deserve to die for her actions.” Besides, he’s long since done killing. Malcolm made the rare exception, and she’s nothing like Malcolm either. “End of story.”

Diggle clenches his teeth and looks away.

“Is there any possibility that she was, y’know, the other vigilante?” Felicity asks hesitantly in the awkward silence that follows.

Oliver shakes his head again. “No. Lane’s not a fighter.” Not physically, at least.

“So!” Felicity claps her hands together in an awkward attempt to push them past the argument that has divided them. “We’ve still got work to do then.”

Oliver takes the olive branch for what it is. It’s still early, after all. He flips his hood back up. “Right, Roy gave us some more information.”

Felicity nods and spins to her computers, already pulling up the files she has on the other vigilante. Oliver picks up his bow again. There are still members of the Bertinelli family he wants to track down too. There’s plenty to keep the group moving, and distracted.

* * *

* * *

_September 9, 2013, the early morning hours:_

“Hold up,” Felicity says suddenly and John glances up to see something flashing in the corner of one of her computer screens.

“Oliver?” he asks, instantly alert, though Felicity doesn’t seem tense enough for that.

“No,” she dismisses instantly. She’s already typing away, engrossed in whatever’s in front of her, brow furrowed in concentration as her eyes flicker rapidly over the screen.

John lets himself relax again, glancing at the screen on the far right, where Oliver’s blinking dot still sits overlaid on a map of Star City. He’s conducting surveillance on one of the names on the List at the moment, and he doesn’t seem to be moving away from the address he’s at. No trouble on that end, at least, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t trouble.

Moving away from the corkboard, John takes up position just behind Felicity’s right shoulder, watching her work for a moment. Whatever it is it’s serious enough to catch her attention, because she’s not babbling about the alert, but she doesn’t seem panicked, just focused.

John doesn’t know the bare bones of even a single coding language, though Felicity’s been ribbing him to at least pick up some HTML and JavaScript. (Which he knows, loosely, is how the Internet works. He thinks.) Whatever it is on the screen that’s making Felicity mutter to herself as she speed-reads through it, he doesn’t have a hope of understanding it.

She’ll explain everything eventually he knows – it’s getting her to stop that’s the problem sometimes – but John does feel a bit useless in moments like these, Oliver out in the field, Felicity deep in some sort of code.

He’s not useless though, and he knows that. He touches his friend lightly on her shoulder.

“Let me know, hey?” he asks, standard fare, prepared to turn back to what they had been working on before.

Felicity snorts, relaxing slightly and shaking her head. “No worries,” she says easily. “You don’t have to learn any code today.”

“Not so serious then?”

She rolls her eyes. “As if. Someone was trying to breach the SCPD systems. Aside from the fact that the most important information isn’t even accessible unless you have a direct connection, they were a complete amateur.”

Maybe not completely, given that they’d caught Felicity’s attention, even if only for a few minutes, but John’s not about to argue with the expert.

“Let me guess: they didn’t get far.”

“I didn’t even have to do anything. The police firewalls can take care of it.”

_Can_. That means the attack is still ongoing. But, hey, if Felicity’s not worried about it, who is Digg to fuss?

“What do you think they’re after?” Felicity muses, leaning back in her chair, eyes still flickering loosely across the changing readouts on her screen.

It’s mostly a rhetorical question, John figures, but the sinking suspicion in his gut has him answering anyway.

“Could be any one of a hundred different things,” he admits, “but…”

Felicity’s gaze flickers up to him, her brown eyes serious beneath her glasses. “Yeah,” she says, heavy, “I thought that too. I was half tempted to just let them in.” Her gaze turns back to the screen, as though she’s still tempted.

It’s been almost a month, and the city still hasn’t come to a decision on how they feel about the List. First the _Register_ had been broken into and now this. Apparently, with the police and the media unable or unwilling to act, the people are starting to take things into their own hands.

“You gonna track him down?” John can’t help but ask. “Trace the signal?”

Felicity bites her lip, hesitating. “Should I?” she asks. “I mean, don’t the people deserve to know?”

They haven’t really talked about it. Oliver’s, obviously, still going after the members of the List one by one, but as for what the city is going to do with the copies he’d handed out… It hasn’t been a topic of discussion, Oliver apparently content to let the people do as they want.

John honestly doesn’t know what he thinks. On one hand, he’s been working with Oliver long enough to know that every person on the List deserves what’s coming to them. On the other, this is the kind of thing that starts riots. He’s waiting for the day that people start picketing outside the homes of millionaires and he’s fairly confident that’ll start up all the sooner if the people have actual names.

“What if the hacker’s working for one of them?” he posits. “Trying to delete the List?”

Felicity shrugs. “Wouldn’t do much good, would it? I’m sure the SCPD have backups, and Oliver can always just give them another copy.”

True enough. John hesitates too.

“Oliver let Lane go,” he reminds Felicity after a moment, and she gives him a look that tells him they’re both still in agreement about how _that_ had gone, “maybe we can just…”

“Look the other way?”

“Something like that.”

“What about Oliver?”

_What about him?_ Digg almost shoots back in return. But he doesn’t. He’s just frustrated, and he knows better than to let his emotions take charge.

“Will the police notice the attack?”

“They should,” Felicity says easily, tone letting him know exactly how little she thinks of the SCPD’s IT department. He’s certainly heard her rant about it enough times. “If they don’t then they’re worse than amateurs.”

“Then I don’t see why we need to be involved.”

Felicity throws him a look, but John doesn’t back down. It’s not _lying_ to Oliver, it’s just… another one of those little crimes that happen every night that they ignore.

Not something Oliver needs to worry about.

_It’s not lying_ , John tells himself, and he’s sure if he believes it or not.

* * *

* * *

_September 14, 2013, early morning:_

In the end, Roy’s tips are helpful in compiling data, but when Oliver tracks down the other vigilante he does so almost completely on accident, only a week or so after letting Lane go. And by that he means that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be, he just doesn’t expect the other woman to be there as well.

Tensions in the foundry have been frayed slightly by his decision to let Lane go and Oliver’s been spending extra time on the streets, staying out again even after Felicity and Digg turn in for the night. It was a habit they’d mostly rid him of, but Oliver can’t bring himself to care that it’s resurfaced. Neither of them has given him an alternative that doesn’t involve undoing everything Lane had done for the city, so if they want to be upset with his decision, that’s on them.

Oliver carries a lot of guilt for a lot of things he’s done over the years. This isn’t one of them.

That’s partially a lie, and even he knows it, because he doesn’t like the distance now reappearing between him and his friends and he knows that _is_ his fault. But he’s pointedly ignoring that fact, and his guilt too. He’d made the right call. Besides, he knows that this was inevitable. That, sooner or later, Felicity and Digg both would find fault with his methods. They’re both too… too good, to work with someone like him for too long.

Regardless, Roy had passed along a completely unrelated tip, about a prostitution ring in the Glades that was probably not just prostitution but human trafficking too, maybe even with the Bratva or the Triad involved. (Rumors about the operation are hard to come by, apparently, but all Oliver needs is the location.)

So, Oliver is exactly where he wants to be, fighting his way through a warehouse of large but not-so-heavily-armed men, when the other vigilante appears from the shadows and joins his fight.

Oliver isn’t about to say she’s on his side, but she’s definitely not on _theirs_ , and right now, that’s what matters. For the moment, he ignores her as best as his ever-active mind can. He ducks under a fist, follows it up with a punch to the throat, and grabs three arrows out of his quiver as he moves. One after the other he fires them: the first into the leg of a man fleeing; the second nicks the bicep of a man running towards him, carving a channel through flesh and muscle; the third heads straight past the commotion and breaks the lock to a cage that currently holds three women.

But he doesn’t have time to head for them. Bleeding heavily from his arm, one of the men rushes forward – not as if to punch him, but as if to tackle him. Because he’d spent the time firing that third arrow, Oliver doesn’t have the space to dodge the attack completely. So he shifts his movement, falls to the floor and rolls, turning the table on his opponent. His back impacts with the man’s legs just as they leave the ground, jarring his quiver, pulling at the strap across his chest, but the move does what Oliver had intended it to do.

The man falls forward to the hard pavement, his momentum carrying him a short distance from Oliver as he rolls, and Oliver rises from his own roll on the other side of him. He uses one of his wire-cable arrows to pin the man to the floor, then spins and uses a regular one to pin another fleeing man to the warehouse wall. (He smirks for the briefest of moments, pleased with the shot that went straight through fabric but not flesh, embedding itself firmly into the concrete beyond it, but he doesn’t linger on the achievement long, quickly refocusing on his surroundings.)

Between the two of them, he and the other vigilante have made short work of the thugs, the bright fluorescents hanging overhead easily illuminating the men lying on the floor around them in varying states of pain and unconsciousness (and some, he suspects, who won’t ever be getting up again). The woman herself, blonde haired, dressed in black leather, with a black mask and a tall, thin silver staff, has already made her way to the woman Oliver had freed and is herding them out the door.

Across the room, their gazes lock. There is mutual respect and mutual appreciation and understanding that the both of them have done something good and honorable here tonight in the way they stare at each other, in their stances and the tilt of their shoulders and the way neither of them move to attack the other. And then she’s off, racing out the door and out of sight.

Oliver shifts his grip on his bow, taps quickly on the comm link, and manages to bite out a quick, “Police can enter now,” before he mutes it again, already running after the woman. She leads him on a merry chase away from the warehouse, and she’s good, very good, but this is Oliver’s city, his territory. He ducks down an alley, takes a shortcut, climbs a fire escape, and cuts her off on a graveled rooftop.

She stumbles ever so slightly at the shock of him appearing in front of her but adapts and adjusts and moves to spin away again. Oliver knows perfectly well that no words will keep her there.

Instead, he attacks. They trade blows, match for match, but after a while Oliver can tell that he has the upper hand. The woman is good, but there’s something about her. He doesn’t want to admit that she’s holding back on him, but it seems like she is and, if Oliver’s being honest, so is he. She’s not an enemy, he thinks. He’s only attacking to get her to stand still. To have a conversation. To tell her not to kill in his city.

And… there’s something about her. Something that strikes deep inside him, some sense of familiarity. Oliver can’t explain it.

Maybe it’s simply because of the good this woman has done, despite the bad, and a sense of kinship because of that. Maybe it’s something else entirely. Whatever it is, it creates a hole in his attack that gives her the chance to run again. Except Oliver had expected that, had recognized his own hesitation and planned for it. When she runs, he pulls his second wire-cable arrow from his quiver and pins her as she runs past a concrete wall atop the roof.

They’re both panting slightly when he approaches her, chests heaving with their exertions. Normally, he thinks (though he’s never exactly dealt with this situation before), this would when he would call the police, leaving her to them, uncaring about the person behind the mask. But every molecule in Oliver’s body is screaming that he _knows_ this woman, is painstakingly, intimately familiar with her. His subconscious refuses to give a name, perhaps protecting him, perhaps simply being pessimistic, but either way, Oliver’s in somewhat of a daze as he reaches up and pulls off her mask (and the wig attached to it).

Oliver takes a step back at the face that greets him, dropping the disguise to the roof below him.

Still pinned to the concrete wall, Sara Lance gives him a small, sad, apologetic smile (no doubt she already knows who _he_ is) and drops a device that pierces Oliver’s eardrums.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now things are getting interesting...
> 
> But this chapter also covers a good length of time, so you'll have to wait for Chapter 11: You Can Never Go Home Again, until September 14th. 
> 
> Thanks for following along, and don't be afraid to let me know what you think!


	11. You Can Never Go Home Again

_September 14, 2013:_

“ _Oliver?! Oliver?_ ”

It’s Felicity’s voice in his head, or rather, his ears. He can barely hear it over the residual ringing. Even if Oliver wasn’t still suffering from the effects of the sonic device, he doesn’t think he would be able to respond anyway. He can’t think, can’t focus, can’t comprehend anything other than the news he’d just learned. (It’s a dangerous state of mind to be in, out here in the Glades, but even that thought only triggers faint concern.) _How?_

_“Oliver!”_

Felicity’s tone shifts from panicked and questioning to panicked and demanding.

Oliver blinks, then lifts a hand to open his end of the comm link. “I’m here,” he says, not quite sure how his own voice sounds. His ears are still ringing loudly.

_“What happened?”_ It’s Diggle’s voice, faint but clear and focused even through Oliver’s temporary partial deafness.

_“Did the other vigilante –”_ Felicity starts. They must have heard from Lance – from the police radios – that she’d been in the warehouse, and that Oliver had given chase.

“I know who she is,” Oliver says, interrupting. He’s still in a daze, stunned by a face that has haunted his nightmares, harsh and accusing. Both times, he was the one who led Sara to her death and both times, it seems, she’d managed to survive against all odds.

She’s _here_. In Star City. _Alive_.

_“What?”_ Diggle’s voice is puzzled, taken aback, and entirely unaware of just how rattled Oliver is at the moment. “ _You mean you, you recognized her?”_

Oliver takes a moment before he responds. He knows how strange it sounds. Of all the women in Star City – in the world – the other vigilante on the streets of his hometown just happens to be someone he knows? But the statistics don’t matter. “Yes.” He thinks about hiding the truth, thinks about concealing her identity (she must be wearing that mask for a reason), but he needs to say it aloud. Needs to hear the words. “It’s Sara.”

It _is_ , because Sara Lance is _alive_.

Silence follows his words. Oliver can only picture his teammates, stock still in the foundry, stunned. He himself hasn’t moved from where he’d fallen. The gravel of the rooftop bites into his knees even through his pants, and the direction Sara had disappeared to is dark and entirely unhelpful.

_“Sara Lance?”_ Felicity asks, skepticism and surprise in her tone.

Oliver doesn’t respond. A moment passes. Early morning traffic whizzes by just within earshot and out of sight. One of the streetlights nearby is blinking slightly, casting shadows even on the roof.

_“I thought she was dead?”_ There’s still disbelief in Felicity’s tone, but it’s fading as she realizes how serious this is.

_So did I_. Oliver thinks about saying. Or: _She was._ What he says instead is, “She’s not.” He’s starting to wrap his mind around it, setting aside the _how_ for why this is the first time they’re meeting after all these years. If she’s been alive all this time… She’s a fighter now, and a well-trained one. Hardened, even more than she had been during the time they’d spent together on the island. Where had she gone? How had she gotten there? Had ARGUS picked her up too, and simply not told him?

He wouldn’t put that past Waller.

Giving himself a mental shake, Oliver forces himself to stand and pay attention to where he is. He scans his surroundings, evaluates his well-being. He’ll have bruises tomorrow from all the hits he’d taken that night, but nothing serious, nothing major, and nothing worth paying any attention to. The ringing in his ears is already mostly gone.

“What happened with the warehouse?” he asks in the silence. He’s not trying to change the topic, not really, but he needs something to pull him back from the shock, and he needs to know what happened after he’d run off to chase… to chase Sara, apparently.

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, then Felicity speaks. _“The police were already on their way when you left, so they got there pretty quickly. Everyone’s safe.”_ Another short pause. _“You missed a call.”_

Oliver nods once, knowing what she means. “I’ll be back shortly,” he says, and mutes the connection again. He doesn’t doubt that Felicity and Digg have questions. He’s got a million in one bubbling up inside him, alongside a desperate need to find Sara again, but he needs to finish this first. They can talk when he gets back to the foundry.

Walking across the rooftop towards the direction of his motorcycle, mind still reeling, ears still ringing, Oliver pulls out his phone and presses speed dial number one.

It rings a few times – no doubt the Detective is looking for a private place to take the phone call – and then Lance picks up. _“Tell me this wasn’t you,”_ he snarls into the phone.

Oliver blinks, and wonders how the man would react if he knew that it was his daughter that had left behind the bodies that have presumably upset him. He doesn’t actually even think about telling him. He’s still trying to wrap his mind around it himself. “I kept my word, Detective, I didn’t kill anyone. But there was someone else there.”

_“Woman? Blonde hair, black leather? Yeah, I heard. Couldn’t kill anyone yourself so you found someone who could?”_

Part of Oliver’s mind recognizes that Lance is more pissed at the situation than he is at the Green Arrow, but most of him is still focused on Sara. Her face is all he can see, imprinted over the run-down buildings that surround him and juxtaposed with the last time he’d seen her as the _Amazo_ had gone down.

“I didn’t know she would be there Detective,” Oliver says truthfully. “And I would have stopped her from killing those men if I could have.”

Sara is _alive_ , and that’s all that matters right now. It’s all Oliver can focus on. He hangs up on Lance without another thought and makes his way back to his motorcycle in a daze.

* * *

Sara Lance is alive. _Sara Lance_ is _alive_. Felicity can’t wrap her mind around the thought, it doesn’t make any sense. She doesn’t know much about the other woman, only that Oliver had cheated on Laurel with her and she’d gone down with the _Gambit_. At least, Oliver had told everyone that he’d been the only survivor.

But Felicity had already known that wasn’t true, she and Digg had already known that Robert Queen had survived the sinking only to die later (to sacrifice himself so Oliver could life, and that’s not a scenario Felicity enjoys imagining). Apparently, Sara had made it as well, and Oliver hadn’t bothered to tell anyone. Felicity knows he doesn’t talk about the island, but she’d assumed that, at the very least, the little he did say was the truth.

Apparently, she’d assumed incorrectly, and he’d lied to them even about that. And it isn’t just the island. Oliver had come back to Star City and lied to the faces of Sara’s loved ones, and all this time she’s been out there, apparently just fine – and fighting crime, just like Oliver.

And, for some reason, Sara had come back to Star City, and hadn’t bothered to tell anyone, not even Oliver.

The tangled web of lies and secrets makes her head hurt.

“Did he tell you?” Felicity asks Diggle after Oliver disconnects, but from the look he gives her his answer is obvious.

Digg shakes his head anyway. “You?” he replies.

Mutely, Felicity echoes his movement. “I don’t… Oliver said she went down with the boat.”

( _‘I thought she was dead,’_ she’d said to Oliver, and his only reply had been, _‘She’s not.’_ )

“He did,” Digg agrees plainly. He looks like he’s in a bit of shock too. He shakes his head, evidently trying to clear it. “But if she made it to the island with him…”

“Why didn’t she come back when he did?” Felicity finishes in surprise, the thought not having occurred to her. From what she and Diggle have been able to piece together from Oliver’s ‘time away’, there’d been other people on the island, but no way off it until Oliver had been rescued (otherwise, surely he would have made his way to Star City, right?). If Sara had survived as well, didn’t that mean she must have been rescued with Oliver? Had the two of them agreed to keep her survival a secret, and if so, why?

None of it makes any sense, not the fact that Sara Lance is alive, or the fact that she’s a vigilante, or the fact that she hasn’t told her family that she’s alive, or even the fact that Oliver hadn’t known the other vigilante was Sara until that night, when he’d unmasked her.

( _Unless he had known the whole time_ , a slimy voice inside Felicity suggests. She shuts it down immediately. No. Oliver might not talk about his past – might lie about his past, apparently – but he wouldn’t have lied about that, and the surprise in his voice a few minutes ago had been real enough. Besides, if he had been lying about that, why bother to tell them now?)

She exchanges glances with Digg, who doesn’t have any more answers than she does – which means they’re going to have to question Oliver, and Felicity _knows_ that won’t go well. She’s frustrated, surprised, and taken aback. She wants nothing more than to question Oliver, to hound him for information, but the worst part is, even after everything they’ve done together, she still doesn’t think he’ll answer.

And if he does, how is she supposed to know whether or not that’s a lie too?

* * *

The ride back is a blur of familiar streets that all look alike, a haze of turns and twists that Oliver navigates without true awareness. He knows the Glades well enough to plot the quickest route to Verdant from any other point, and apparently well enough to find his way back even after coming face to face with a friend he’d long since thought dead.

Three years. It’s been almost three years since the _Amazo_ had sunk, Oliver thinks. There’d been little in the way of timekeeping, on the island, so he can’t say for certain what day it was he’d thought he’d seen Sara die again, but they’d had the seasons to guide them, and he’d gone to Hong Kong shortly after, so he has a rough idea.

To him, Sara Lance has been dead for three years. But she’s not. She’s alive.

Inside the foundry, Digg and Felicity at least hold back their questions until Oliver gets properly into the room, pulling back his hood and collapsing into the vacated chair in front of the computers. Mind still spinning, flashbacks from the last time he’d seen Sara running through his mind, Oliver has to hold back a bark of laughter when his brain somehow thinks that now is a good time to remember Tommy’s request to add more chairs.

How can he even think that, at this moment, now that he knows Sara is still among the living? He hunches over the in chair, forearms braced against his knees. Digg leans against a nearby table, trying for patience, but the tight lines of his body betray him. Felicity can’t seem to sit still.

“You said the vigilante was Sara – and we are talking about the same Sara Lance, right?” she asks. “As in Laurel’s sister? Detective Lance’s other daughter, the one that you took on the _Gambit_ with you even though you were dating Laurel at the time, which we never talk about–” (She’d never known Sara, not like Tommy and Laurel and even Thea, doesn’t know a thing about the people Oliver and Sara had been back then.)

“Felicity,” Digg tries to cut in, low and pleading. (Oliver appreciates that, but he’s not really listening anyway, and he’s pretty sure that Digg’s not any happier about the news than Felicity is. Or maybe _disbelieving_ is a better word, because he doesn’t know what reason either of his friends would have to be upset at the news.)

“I’m sorry,” Felicity manages to say, “it’s just… You told everyone that she died when the _Gambit_ went down, that she drowned.”

Oliver clenches his fists, shakes his head futilely. He’s hearing what his friends are saying, but he’s not really processing it. How had Sara survived the _Amazo_ sinking? Why hadn’t she told him she was alive? If not when Oliver had been working for Waller, then after he’d come home, at the very least?

Except – Oliver had been on the boat when it had gone down, maybe she’d thought him dead too. Had she been so far removed from the world the news of his return to Star City hadn’t reached her?

And if Amanda Waller hadn’t pulled him from the wreck of the _Amazo_ , if he’d washed up on the island again, could he have found Sara again?

Could _Waller_ have rescued Sara? And if she hadn’t, who had? Because when Oliver finally had gone back to Lian Yu, she hadn’t been there.

Diggle, ever observant, takes note of his body language in response to Felicity’s comment. (Sixty seconds and an eternity ago). “You lied,” he says simply. It’s not a question, but it doesn’t seem to be an accusation either. (Not yet. But maybe that’s why his friends are upset: not at Sara’s return, but at his choices, once again.)

Oliver doesn’t look over, but he can tell both Digg and Felicity are awaiting his response.

He shouldn’t have come here. He doesn’t– He can’t– He’s struggling to process what it means, to have seen Sara’s face tonight, to have fought with her. He doesn’t need his friend’s questions on top of that.

But he also needs someone else who knows what he does, who knows he isn’t going crazy, isn’t imagining things. And if the other vigilante on the streets of Star City _is_ Sara Lance, then his friends – his partners – need to know what that means.

He shifts, musters his strength. “Sara was pulled under when the _Gambit_ capsized. I thought she drowned.” The words are rough, harsh, cruel memories forced out through his throat when all he wants to do is think about the fact that’s she’s made it back to Star City too. They’ve both made it home. He pauses, catches his breath, searches for the words to continue the terrible story. “I didn’t see her again for another year.” So much had happened in that year, so much that Diggle and Felicity are completely unaware of, but they don’t need to know.

Not for this story.

His friends are startled by the revelation, however small it is compared to the fact that Sara’s here now. “Where? On the island?” Digg asks in surprise. “She drifted to the island too?”

Oliver just shakes his head again. Sara is _alive_. It’s like seeing Shado again. Or Slade, whole and grinning and calling him his brother. It’s like seeing his father, even, because he’d been so _certain_ that Sara was gone.

Waller had told him he’d been the only survivor. Had she known?

“Not exactly,” he says to Diggle. It’s all the information he can force out at the moment. His heart clenches, remembering seeing her face from behind prison bars. How can he put that moment into words, the terror and the pain and the fear and the shear and utter relief at the sight of her before him? And the confusion too, when she’d seemed to be working for his captors.

It might have been a mercy, had she actually drifted to the island instead.

“Why didn’t you tell the Lances she didn’t die on that boat?” Felicity asks. “They blame you.”

And they’re right to. “It was my fault,” Oliver cuts in harshly, cutting off any more protest. And he’d made a promise, anyway.

“You just said she made it to the island,” Diggle counters.

As if that changes anything. “And what happened there was my fault.”

“So where has she been all this time?” And there’s the accusation that Oliver had been waiting for even as he’d struggled to accept what he’d seen that night. The anger that Oliver hasn’t shared more information about his time on the island. That he’d lied.

As if it’s their right to know his past, a past he can barely think about, filled with so much misery and pain and hatred. (Hatred of himself, mostly, whenever he thinks about what those days turned him into.)

His own anger surges in reply, though he’s not certain it’s Diggle and Felicity he’s angry at. Not entirely, at least.

“I don’t know!” he half-yells, standing. He doesn’t understand how Sara is alive and he doesn’t know why she didn’t find him sooner (she’s been in Star City for months) and he doesn’t know if maybe Waller knew, and kept it from him, and he doesn’t need these questions, and he thought he was done with the period of his life where everyone around him badgered him about his time away, and now here two of his closest friends are, unrelenting in their need to know about the worst time of his life.

“I don’t know,” he repeats, quieter. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Hold on,” Diggle says before he takes more than a few steps. “Aren’t you going to fill in some blanks here?”

Oliver can feel the phantom pain of a bullet in his gut and chains around his wrists. He would swear he can smell the forest air, the stench of fuel that the _Amazo_ had given off, the taste of seawater in his mouth. He needs to find Sara; he needs to actually talk to her. She’s the one who can fill in the blanks. “Not now,” he counters. Distantly, he is aware of how the statement will upset his friends, but Sara’s all that he can think about.

“You mean not ever, don’t you Oliver?”

“Don’t you think the Lances should know that she made it to the island too? That she’s alive?”

But they don’t get it, they can’t get it, they don’t have a clue how difficult it is to talk about, how every time he opens his mouth the words won’t come. The island and everything it had led to had been nothing but pain and terror for Oliver. There had been sparse good moments, mixed in between the bad, but even those aren’t actually _good_ memories, just momentary pauses from the suffering – his suffering, his allies suffering, and the suffering of those that he’d hurt. Oliver remembers his promise to Sara, to tell her family that she’d died on the _Gambit_. He’d honored that promise, and he doesn’t regret it.

“No,” he says bluntly. _Yes_ , he means, for the second question at least, but that’s not his call to make. He’s not going to take these accusations now. He needs to find Sara and thinking of the Lances gives him an idea of just where she might go. He shoulders his way past his friends, picking up his bow again as he does so. He’ll answer their questions later. Once he’s found Sara. “They were better off not knowing,” he says in answer to the first question. They were. Are. He believes that wholeheartedly. It’s kinder, to let them think she drowned, then to tell them she suffered for years and still never made it home.

(Except she’s home now.)

“Do they deserve to know now?” Diggle asks as he walks away.

The question gives Oliver pause, but it doesn’t really matter what he thinks, does it? It’s not his to answer. He glances back at his friends. “Take the day off,” he says, a blatant change of topic, and leaves them staring after him as he walks away. He’ll talk to them later. For now, Sara.

Oliver gets to his target rooftop just before dawn, finds a secure position, takes a seat, and waits. Sara is alive. Sara Lance, the woman he’d cheated on Laurel with, the woman he’d fought beside on the island and the _Amazo_. The woman who’d saved his life and whose life he’d saved. The woman he’d watched die twice. Oliver hadn’t thought that the world had had any more miracles left for him.

Then again, maybe it still doesn’t. Sara isn’t the woman he’d gotten on the yacht with – she isn’t even the same woman he’d fought alongside on the island. Wherever she’s been, whoever she was with, she’s learned how to fight, and fight well.

Of course, he’s not the same either, is he? The last time she’d seen him had been before Hong Kong. Before Waller and ARGUS and the Bratva. There’s a lot that’s changed for him too. The last time she’d seen him had been before he’d come home. Before reconnecting with Thea and Tommy. Before fulfilling his father’s dying wish (partially, because he’d stopped Malcolm, and he’s sure that’s what his father was alluding too, but the city’s still not saved). That had been before the Arrow; before Diggle, and Felicity.

His partners. His friends. Two people that he’s brought into his crusade despite the fact that he’d always thought he’d do it alone. They’re… probably pretty upset with him right now.

Oliver carries a lot of guilt, but he doesn’t blame himself for what had happened last night. How had they expected him to react, on seeing Sara Lance back from the dead? They don’t need to know about what happened to him on the island, not really, not to do their jobs properly.

He will tell them something. Not everything, because even Sara coming back from the dead doesn’t make the prospect of reliving those memories any easier, but he’ll tell them the proper sequence of events, at least.

Later though. After he talks to Sara. After he _learns_ the proper sequence of events, because he has no idea what happened to Sara after the _Amazo_ went down. Digg and Felicity, they’d wanted to know where Sara had been, as if he’d lied about that too.

He doesn’t blame them either for what happened last night, looking back. If he’d lied about Sara going down with the _Gambit_ … But they don’t need to know the details, to do their jobs right. He understands their desire to “fill in the blanks”, as Digg had put it, but…

He’ll talk to them. Make sure they aren’t really upset. Just… not yet. He needs some time to process everything himself.

He sits near motionless in his position, thinking, wondering, reveling in the fact that Sara is still alive. The late summer sun manages to make its way over the skyscrapers of Star City before Oliver even shifts. Laurel has already left for work. Tommy, after staying up late and tending to Verdant the previous night, hasn’t woken yet. Oliver’s not really watching them – he’s too busy thinking – but he finds his gaze drawn to their windows more than once. What would they think, if they knew Sara was still alive?

Will they ever find out?

* * *

Just after midday Oliver realizes someone else has joined him on the rooftop, light feet treading forward to stand just behind his right shoulder. It’s Sara; he knows it’s her, can see her shadow and familiar silhouette. Part of him longs to turn around and see her, to prove to himself that this hasn’t all been a dream, or a delusion, or some drug-induced hallucination. He doesn’t move.

After a minute of silence, him staring at Laurel’s building, her probably either doing the same, or staring at him, she speaks.

“Did you tell my family that I’m alive?”

Oliver notes the desperation in her voice. And it _is_ Sara’s voice, older, harder, but so achingly familiar to him. There’s an undercurrent of warmth in her hesitant question. They are both meeting with people they once thought dead. More than once, actually.

“No,” he says plainly. The thought had crossed his mind as he’s sat here waiting, especially when it came to Laurel, but, selfishly, he’d wanted to see her again first. Wanted his own questions answered. The sounds of a body shifting come from behind him at the single work, a small exhale of relief leaving Sara’s lungs. Now it’s Oliver’s turn to ask a question. “How?”

A short pause, then, “I could ask the same of you.”

So she’d thought him dead too. Oliver had assumed, but…

“ARGUS.” He doesn’t know if Sara has even heard of ARGUS, if she knows what he’s talking about, but it wouldn’t surprise him if she has. He’s seen her fight, after all. “They pulled me from the ship.”

“Pressed you into service.”

It isn’t a question. Oliver thinks bitterly of all his escape attempts in Hong Kong, of the threats on the Yamashiro’s lives to ensure he’d stop trying. Eventually, he’d worked for ARGUS willingly (…in a manner of speaking; he’d still been drugged into returning to Lian Yu), but Sara’s words are accurate.

“You?” he asks again.

“Someone found me,” she says, and Oliver picks up on the undercurrent of warmth in her voice again, though he doesn’t know if anyone else would have noticed it.

It’s clear she doesn’t want to tell him who, exactly, had found her. Probably not ARGUS then, though that doesn’t mean Waller hadn’t known she’s survived. “And now you’re working with them.”

“They saved my life,” Sara says, and this time there’s just the slightest hint of a defensive tone in her words.

Someone like the woman Sara has become – like the man he was when he was working for ARGUS willingly – isn’t defensive unless they know that what they’re doing is wrong. Even if they can’t admit it to themselves. Oliver knows the feeling. He’d thrown himself back into working for ARGUS, and he’d saved some lives in the process, but even now he questions his past decisions, questions the killing he’d done after returning to Star City.

He doesn’t regret what he did to survive, however much of a monster it turned him into. What he doesn’t know if he regrets or not are the choices he made that led him deeper into that darkness. Like returning to Lian Yu at Waller’s beck and call. ( _You were drugged_ , some part of his mind reminds him, but it’s a distant thought. He’d chosen not to go home, after all.)

He’s changing his mindset, his methods. Because of Superman, but for Tommy. For Thea, and Laurel, and Felicity and Digg and Star City. Sara evidently hasn’t gotten there yet, but she seems to be on the path. She’s come back to Star City, after all, apparently of her own free will. That, Oliver figures, is the first step.

Because Sara has killed. Oliver can’t say how he knows, but he knows Sara and he knows killers. She’s completed the transformation that had begun on the _Amazo_ – he’d seen evidence of that last night, and his instincts tell him it wasn’t her first time.

Finally, Oliver shifts, turning only his head to face Sara. She stands tall beside him, defiant and fierce despite her small stature. Oliver drinks in the sight of her, and finds his gaze focused solely on his face. She’s as beautiful as he remembers.

“And Laurel?” he asks. “Your father?” Her mother too, in Central City.

Sara’s eyes stop scanning him and meet his gaze. She frowns. “They don’t need to know. They can’t know.”

“Sara –”

She cuts him off. “It’s too dangerous Ollie, I’m not even supposed to be here.”

“But you are,” Oliver counters. He stands fluidly, ignoring any protests from his muscles at moving after so long staying still the same way he ignores his old nickname, and turns to face her completely.

“I had to check in. The earthquake –”

“Was four months ago.” And an excuse – Oliver can recognize one when he sees it.

“I can’t tell them, Oliver.”

Oliver can also recognize determination when he sees it. Sara isn’t going to budge on this and pushing her will only drive her away. He can’t do that, can’t lose her again. And maybe, eventually, he can get her to tell her family the truth, get her to realize it’s okay for her to come home.

Evidently, she can see his resignation, his decision, in his body language, because she relaxes too.

“So,” she says. “Vigilante?”

“I was working to correct my father’s mistakes, working to stop the earthquake.”

“Was?”

Oliver smiles. “I’m trying something different.” He thinks of Helena, who he’d tried to convince to see things his way, but this is different. He knows Sara, has known her for some time. She too has been turned into a killer out of necessity and circumstance, not choice (he thinks, he hopes, he dreams). “Want to see?”

He’s got the foundry to himself for the day; Diggle and Felicity won’t be back until later, and he wants to show Sara his new home.

* * *

* * *

_September 15, 2013, morning:_

“The whole point of us having the List was for us to work on it! Not turn around and give it right back to _him_!”

“And what, exactly, did he think that a bunch of broke lawyers working for CNRI were going to do with it? We don’t have the resources to go after these people, let alone the time! Despite what you seem to think at times, we’re not miracle workers!”

From the doorway to the kitchen a soft cough interrupts Laurel and Jo’s latest argument. Laurel instantly settles down, feeling a brief wash of guilt wash over her. She turns to face her boyfriend.

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “We were trying not to be loud.” Tommy worked a shift at Verdant last night, and given that it’s still morning, probably only got in five or six hours of sleep. She and Jo had kept their voices down when Jo had first arrived an hour or so ago to discuss their very slim casefile on Dr. Mark Anderson, but they’d lost track of time and their surroundings in their frustration.

Tommy blinks tiredly at the two of them, yawning before he shifts his expression into a grin and shrugs. “Don’t worry about it, I would have woken up soon anyway.”

“Jo and I are just working on a case,” she tells him.

“Hey Hot Stuff,” Jo says easily, waving across the table at him.

Tommy’s grin widens and he chuckles. “I’m starting to think you and Laurel are the ones dating, the way you keep working on this. This about the List?”

(He’s taken to capitalizing the word, and Jo too. Laurel can hear it in their voices.)

Grinning at his joke, Laurel nods. “Mmm hmm,” she starts. “One of CNRI’s clients is trying to sue for medical malpractice against a doctor who’s on the List.” As she speaks, Laurel shuffles papers around, clearing a spot for Tommy and making sure a third chair is devoid of paperwork as well. “But aside from that fact, we don’t have much to go on.”

“And being on the List isn’t exactly grounds for reasonable suspicion,” Jo says sharply, giving Laurel a pointed look as Tommy plops down into his seat. It’s not the first time she’s pointed it out.

Laurel quickly squashes the burst of irritation she feels at her friend’s words. “We don’t have enough information to make a case yet,” she agrees, some of her suppressed irritation nevertheless leaking out into her words. “We’re trying to figure out how to get that information.”

Tommy picks up the folder that started it all and studies the photograph of Dr. Anderson paperclipped to the outside. “And you were thinking about approaching the Green Arrow.” It’s not a question.

Jo looks more hesitant – she’s never met the man, after all – but she nods. “He has the resources to find the information we need.”

“Except you just said that we need proof, which means we need a chain of custody on all evidence we find, which means we can’t get it from him!” Laurel cuts in, not for the first time. “Not to mention the fact that –”

A loose gesture from Tommy cuts her off as he leans further over the table. “I think I already interrupted this argument. And I’m sorry Jo, but I agree with Laurel. I may not be a lawyer, but I know that the Green Arrow’s probably busy with his own members of the List. If he’d wanted to go after this guy, he would have already.”

Jo settles down in her seat. There’s a mildly irritated look on her face but Laurel can already see the agreement in her eyes. Jo’d never really believed that turning to Star City’s vigilante had been the best bet, but she’s also never had the same confidence as Laurel when it comes to winning seemingly unwinnable fights. And this is one job she doesn’t think they can handle.

Well, Laurel’s proved her wrong before. She’s willing to do it again.

From the looks of him, so is Tommy.

“Before we get into this,” he jokes, standing again, “I’m going to need some breakfast. Anyone need a coffee run?”

Laurel falls in love with him a little bit all over again as she and Jo chime in with their requests.

* * *

* * *

_September 16, 2013, night:_

Oliver acts differently around Sara – that the first thing Felicity notices when she gets back to the foundry to see the two of them at each other’s side, and it says something that it takes her so little time to tell. If Felicity hadn’t spent most of her nights the past year by his side – or, at least, the beginnings and endings of most nights for the past eight months or so as he ventured in and out of the lair – she wouldn’t have noticed.

But she has, so she does.

Oliver isn’t tense anymore, not exactly, but Felicity’s talked to Diggle, and she’s done some research into traumatic experiences – PTSD in particular (and by research she means Google). She can’t say for certain if’s he’s got the disorder – she is so far from being a medical professional in any way, shape, or form – but he’s certainly got a lot of the symptoms. Oliver sits or stands with as many entrances and exits in sight as possible. When they squeeze together into a booth a Big Belly Burger, it doesn’t matter if he sits with her, Digg, or sometimes Tommy who occasionally accompanies them – he takes the outside seat.

He isn’t easily startled, but that’s because he’s always on edge, always aware of his surroundings, never letting anyone sneak up on him. He doesn’t sleep nearly as much as she thinks he should, and though she’s never actually seen him sleep, she can’t imagine such occasions are dreamless. Felicity’s sure there are more quirks of his that she hasn’t noticed, subtle things he does now because of his time on the island, but Oliver hides his paranoia remarkably well, and she has no pre-island-Oliver memories to compare his current behavior to.

So, Felicity knows Oliver pretty well by now, knows the way he stands, the way he spars with Diggle, the way he moves around the lair, or the crowded floor of Verdant. She’s seen him act the same way around her and Digg, around Tommy and Laurel, around Thea and Roy, around strangers and old (pre-island) friends. Which is why she notices that Sara is different.

Because while Felicity had thought that Oliver was finally relaxing, when she first meets Sara Lance she realizes just how wrong she is.

It does take her a moment, because she’s mostly still frustrated with the fact that Oliver had hidden yet another truth from them, that Sara’s been alive all this time, that she’d made it to the island with Oliver. She’d thought he’d been opening up – and he has been, she supposes – but he still doesn’t talk about the five years he was gone.

Two days after learning of Sara’s survival, after their impromptu day off, Felicity gets to the foundry before Diggle, but after Oliver and Sara get there. She’s furious at the lies, and the fact that even though the truth is out there now, Oliver hasn’t given them any further information – and all of this on top of just letting Lane go, without even bothering to consult with her and Digg. But her anger and the fact that Oliver has found Sara again and brought her to the Arrow Cave aren’t what make Felicity stop in surprise at the bottom of the stairs. What makes her stop and stare in astonishment is the fact that Oliver is _lounging_ in the chair – there’s no other word for it, not compared to how he usually sits (which, in itself, is rare; Oliver seems to prefer to keep moving).

It’s not like he’s grinning widely or laughing – he’s got his usual small smile that appears when he’s content – but he’s sitting, and he’s relaxed, and it isn’t until this very moment that Felicity realizes that she hasn’t really seen him relaxed before. Before now, she’d apparently never had a comparison.

He’s not slouching or sprawling, but there’s a looseness to his limbs, a casualness in the way he leans back. He doesn’t even really _sit_ most of the time, Felicity thinks angrily to herself, though that might be because they only have the one chair. It’s a subtle change from Oliver’s usual posture, and if Felicity hasn’t spent so much time with him she probably wouldn’t have noticed, but she has, so she does.

Oliver and Sara have both noticed her, of course, because Sara apparently moves like Oliver does, all tightly coiled muscles, ready to spring at a moment’s notice, with a sharp gaze and ears that could rival a bat’s. (Sara is just as beautiful as Felicity had been picturing. It doesn’t improve her mood any.) Oliver grins at her and stands, offering the chair with a greeting; Sara simply nods.

Felicity wishes she could nod like that, all calm and cool and collected, but she thinks she would probably just look like an idiot. She gives a small wave instead, which probably doesn’t look much better. “Hey,” she says, trying to keep her tone light. “Welcome back from the dead.”

It’s not Sara she’s mad at, not really. She takes the chair from Oliver and spins toward her computers, tucking her purse into its usual spot. Should she ask why Sara isn’t dead? Or is that prying too much into something the other woman won’t want to talk about? (If she’s like Oliver in that regard too, then she certainly won’t say anything, Felicity thinks unhappily.)

Sara smiles slightly, and she does that the same was as Oliver as well, subtly and cautiously, eyes hard. “You must be Felicity.” She doesn’t say any more.

“Yep, that’s me,” Felicity replies stupidly, and suddenly her big mouth has no idea of what to say next. She glances sideways over at Sara, dressed in black leather, though without the mask and wig at the moment, which are resting on the table next to her.

If she punches a little too hard at the keyboard as she sets up her screens, nobody says anything. So what if she’s upset over Oliver’s secrets, and if there’s a little bit of jealousy mixed in there too, well, who can tell? (She’s not even sure what, exactly, she’s jealous of: Oliver and Sara aren’t together as far as she knows, and she’s not even sure if she likes Oliver that way. At least, that’s what she tells herself. Maybe it’s just the way Sara fits seamlessly into her spot at Oliver’s side, while she and Diggle have had to push and fight and scrape for that position, tearing Oliver’s walls down brick by brick. Sara, apparently, has a key.)

“Nothing big has come up,” Oliver says calmly (he’s always calm, except for when he gets upset, and a tight thread of anger underlies his tone). “Sara and I were just going to patrol.”

Oh, now Sara’s going to patrol with him, just like that. Felicity spins in her chair again and raises an eyebrow at the other woman, unable to stop herself this time.

“Who else knows?”

“Just you three.”

Three – her, Oliver, and Diggle. But the three of them aren’t the only ones involved with the Green Arrow anymore. “What about Tommy?” she asks, and she thinks she knows the answer to that, but she _really_ doesn’t want to hear it.

At the words, Sara does that thing Oliver does sometimes, where she freezes but not really because she was already practically motionless. “Tommy knows?” she asks, and yep, there’s that same undercurrent of danger in her voice too.

“No,” Oliver says quickly, with a sharp glance at Felicity, “and he’s not going to find out.”

“We’re keeping secrets from Tommy now too?” Felicity is properly angry now, and she’s not afraid to let Oliver know it.

“Yes,” Oliver grinds out, and he doesn’t even have the decency to raise his own voice in response. “He would tell Laurel.”

“Well maybe Laurel deserves to know!” Felicity doesn’t get it, how he can keep secret after secret without caring. Oliver had risen from the grave and told everyone that Sara was dead. Now Felicity finds out that she’s alive, just unwilling to let anyone else in on that little fact. She knows the secret of Oliver’s identity already tugs at Tommy’s relationship with Laurel, knows how much the other man just isn’t built for keeping secrets, but Oliver doesn’t seem to care.

Oliver doesn’t so much as twitch in response to Felicity’s impassioned outcry. Beside him, Sara is watching their argument with a small frown, but she doesn’t say anything either.

And Felicity knows Oliver, recognizes the stubborn set to his jaw, the tension across his shoulders. He’s not budging from his position, no matter how wrong he is.

“Ugh.” She throws up her hands in frustration, snatches her purse off the table, and storms up the stairs. This was a mistake. It had been a mistake to come in while she’s so angry, and a mistake to have expected Oliver to have changed in one day. What had she thought, that he would suddenly open up about all his lies? She leaves is a huff, brushing past Diggle as she does so, and neither Oliver nor Sara try to stop her.

* * *

Oliver’s eyes flicker over to Diggle as Felicity leaves, watching the other man make his way down to the basement with a small frown of confusion on his face. Digg’s own gaze flickers between Oliver and Sara.

“What was all that about?” he asks cautiously.

“I told Felicity that we can’t let Tommy know that Sara’s alive,” Oliver replies bluntly. “She didn’t agree with me.”

Digg’s eyes move to Sara again, before returning to Oliver. He’s tenser than usual, with an unknown threat in the foundry. (Oliver wishes he could say Sara wasn’t a threat, and he does trust her, but… He’s still getting to know this new her. And she’ll hurt Digg if she thinks she has to. He can’t shy away from that fact.) Digg doesn’t seem happy about the proclamation either, crossing his arms.

“You do know he knows how to get down here, don’t you?”

“Tommy doesn’t work Monday nights,” Oliver counters. “He’s at home right now.”

“And tomorrow?” Diggle asks. “The day after that?”

Next to Oliver, Sara shifts minutely in a way that lets Oliver know she’s about to speak.

“I never said I was going to join your crusade,” she says. “Ollie was just showing me around.”

Diggle shoots Oliver a look, jaw tight, and Oliver’s not sure if it’s because of the casual familiarity with which Sara calls him ‘Ollie’ or because of the defensive tone Sara has taken, as though it’s her and Oliver against him and Felicity. He wonders if Sara had used the nickname on purpose, or if it had just slipped out.

“And if Oliver runs into you again?” Digg asks, his tone annoyed now.

“Then we tell him I’m working with the other vigilante,” Oliver answers. “He doesn’t have to know who she is.”

Diggle and Felicity are both apparently upset with Oliver’s secrets, but neither of them gets it – he _wants_ to tell Tommy, thinks Laurel and Quentin should know that Sara’s still alive, but it isn’t his secret to tell. And if he were to tell it, then he’d lose Sara permanently, he knows that for a fact. Even if by some miracle she still stayed in Star City after her secret was out, she’d never speak to him again.

And Oliver can’t do that. He can’t lose Sara a third time. Even just considering the possibility…

“So you want Felicity and I to sit in here with Tommy, helping the two of you take down criminals night after night, and lie to his face? He’s going to ask questions.”

Yes. Oliver know Tommy is going to ask questions. That’s not the point.

Sara takes a menacing step forward. “If you tell anyone…” she starts, but Oliver shifts beside her and she stops, throwing him a glance. They don’t always need words to communicate, but she frowns at his interruption.

“He won’t say anything,” Oliver reassures her lowly, before raising his voice and turning back to his friend. “Will you?”

Digg huffs in frustration. “No Oliver, I won’t say anything,” he says pointedly. “But that doesn’t mean I agree with any of this.”

Nodding once in acceptance (Oliver himself doesn’t agree with it), Oliver turns, heading to the back door with Sara at his side. Whether or not Diggle stays tonight is up to him, but Oliver’s going to patrol, and he’s going to do it with Sara.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sara speaks. They’re on a rooftop not far from Verdant, overlooking a good portion of the Glades.

“That went well,” she says plainly. “Those are your new friends?”

“They’re my team.”

“They don’t act like it.”

“Friends question each other’s choices.” It’s pretty clear he’s not just talking about Felicity and Diggle.

Sara glances over at him briefly, but she doesn’t respond to that. “So, where to next?” she asks instead.

* * *

Fighting at Sara’s side, rather than against her, is intoxicating. It’s a breath of fresh air, a warm blanket on a cold night, a cool drink on a hot summer day.

Since he’s been back, Oliver’s fought side by side with Diggle and Helena, navigated around the police officers on the same side as him, and witnessed Laurel utilize her self-defense skills far too often for his liking. He’s trained with Diggle and Superman, and demonstrated some basic self-defense moves for Felicity.

The hood had been a way to separate Oliver Queen from the murderer inside him, but these days, most of the people in his life see both sides. There is no separation for Diggle or Felicity or Tommy. They see Oliver and the Arrow and try to believe they’re the same person. And maybe they are starting to be again – Oliver has stopped killing, after all – but he still needs a way to hold the monster back.

And Sara, Sara knows him, in a way no one else does because none of them were on the island with him. It’s been too long since he’s let himself relax (however minutely) in the field, knowing that someone is watching his back. (It’s not that he doesn’t trust Digg, it’s just… Well, Oliver couldn’t say what it was. A lack of shared experience. The fact that Digg’s training had involved a group of loyal soldiers at his sides, and doesn’t understand what it’s like to not know who to trust.) Whoever Sara is now, whatever she’s become, he still knows she’s got him covered. Sara knows the monster that lives inside him, accepts its presence.

It doesn’t matter that it’s been years, or that both their fighting styles have changed and grown and improved. They move around each other fluidly, without the need for words most times.

There’s no challenge to their fights that night though, which dims the excitement somewhat. None of the criminals or thugs they face off against have any sort of training, and they’re all easily dispatched.

Still, they stay out all night, until the sun begins to lighten the sky on the eastern horizon, and then they flit around for even a bit longer after that. They’ve spent more of the night chasing each other over the rooftops than actually fighting, weaving around unnecessary obstacles as they enter or leave crime scenes, testing their limits. By the time they do stop they’re both sweating and grinning – the first real smile Oliver’s seen on Sara’s face if far too long (one of the first times he’s _seen_ Sara’s face in far too long).

Oliver doesn’t want to kill that smile, but there are more things they have to talk about. Sitting side by side on a rooftop overlooking his city as the sun rises, Oliver speaks first.

“What’s your plan, Sara?” he asks solemnly. She’s already made it clear she doesn’t intend to let anyone else know she’s in town. “Right now you’re just… haunting your family, like some sort of ghost.”

“We’re both ghosts,” she countered. “We died on that island.”

Oliver understands that, because he knows perfectly well that the him who came back is not the same man who left, but that doesn’t make Sara’s words true. There are things he carried with him; things unchanged by his hardship. Such as his love for his family and friends. He’s different, yes, but they _hadn’t_ died – isn’t that sort of the whole point, that they’d lived? That they’d survived and made it home against all odds?

“No, we didn’t,” he tells her. It might have taken him months to realize it, probably not until after the Undertaking was over and done with, but Oliver Queen has made it home alive – and so has Sara Lance. “You can come home now. The earthquake might have brought you here, but your family kept you here – and they still need you.”

Sara shakes her head. “They’ve moved on. Laurel has Tommy now, and…”

“They deserve to know, and you deserve to have them in your life.”

Sara stiffens. “You know nothing about what I deserve.” There’s a chill to her words that oddly reminds Oliver of himself.

Alright, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he knows nothing about where Sara’s been, or what she’s done. “I know what I thought I deserved, when I finally came home,” he says carefully. Knows that he still doesn’t deserve the happiness he’s had these last few months. But while he might not deserve the contentment that’s started to settle into his routine, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve having Thea in his life again, in whatever form he can have her. Or Tommy and Laurel, Felicity and Digg, even his mother, part of his life once more now that they all know he’s alive.

“Oliver…”

There’s too much unknown between them, missing knowledge of their time apart that neither of them wants to talk about. But also, they know each other too well to pull apart from each other again, even if neither of them is willing to speak.

“You told them I died on the _Gambit_ ,” Sara says eventually, shifting back to their earlier topic. “If they were to find out the truth…”

“They would never speak to me again,” Oliver agrees calmly. He doesn’t care. He’s not going to let his relationship with the Lances be Sara’s excuse for never seeing her family again, face to face. “It would be worth it.”

He stands and holds out a hand to Sara. Rather than rejecting his ideas, his words, Sara pauses carefully, then takes his offered hand and let him help her to her feet.

It’s not agreement, not yet. But it’s something.

* * *

* * *

_September 17, 2013, night:_

Bringing Sara to the foundry – letting Diggle and Felicity meet her – had been an attempt at an apology of sorts on Oliver’s part, but it hadn’t worked out very well in the end. And it doesn’t matter that Oliver’s not about to go into details about his time with Sara on the island, or what little he knows about where Sara’s been since then, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try and patch things up with his friends.

He’s resolved to tell him the barest of facts, at least. They’re already upset enough about his letting Lane go. It’s the least he can do. So Oliver meets them for dinner the next night without Sara, facing them head on.

“Look, I’m sorry about all this,” Oliver apologizes, and his words are honest and truthful. “I know you don’t want to keep this secret. If I could, I’d make it so that you didn’t have to lie to Tommy.” Because he can understand that, can understand not wanting to lie to someone who sometimes works with them. ( _Your best friend,_ his thoughts whisper to him, but however much he believes that, he still can’t make himself believe that Tommy feels the same.)

“What are you saying?” Felicity asks skeptically. “That you actually _want_ to tell Tommy?”

But Diggle is eyeing him critically, and he responds first before Oliver can. “No. I think he’s saying that he wouldn’t have told us either.”

His tone is displeased, his disapproval obvious. Oliver keeps his face blank, feeling the conflict tear him up inside. He wants to state his obvious disagreement with their words, but the problem is that the answer is somehow both yes and no, all at once. He hates the position he’s put Felicity and Diggle in, forcing them to lie to a man who has become their friend, and he would spare them that pain if he could. But he can’t take back the secrets he’s already told them and telling Tommy would mean losing Sara and he just _can’t_. He _can’t_ go through that again.

His silence is too telling, and Diggle scoffs and shakes his head when Oliver doesn’t reply. Felicity huffs in frustration as well and stands, making her way out of the booth.

“Look man,” Diggle says, “teamwork requires honesty, and I realize you were alone for those five years, but you’ve got to learn to trust _somebody_.”

As if that’s the problem here.

They leave Oliver alone, but he doesn’t linger for long. Part of him wants to spill everything, because they just don’t _get it_ , but the other part of him is resigned. Everybody in his life leaves, sooner or later, because of the choices Oliver makes. This was inevitable, and he’s fooling himself if he thinks otherwise.

He hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell them the outline of how he and Sara had found each other again on Lian Yu. They think it’s him not _trusting_ them – not trusting anyone – that’s the problem.

Oliver had trusted plenty of people while he was away, in one form or another: Yao Fei and Shado are dead, Slade betrayed and tried to kill him; Sara he’d thought was dead, until only a few nights ago; the Yamashiros had fallen apart in the wake of their son’s death; he’d killed Tania himself; most of the Bratva had turned against Oliver and Anatoly. Anatoly himself is the only friend Oliver still has from his five years away that is still whole (and who knows how that still stands, with the man now in charge of mobsters and murderers even worse than Oliver himself). He’s trusted plenty of people, in one way or another – it’s just never worked out well for him in the end.

Besides, he’s trusting _them_ , isn’t he? He’s trusting Felicity and Diggle to keep his secret, and he’s trusting Sara to have his back. No, trust isn’t the issue here, it’s not about trust. Or, it’s not about his trust. He does trust Quentin and Laurel, or he would anyway, with the truth of Sara’s continued existence. It’s Sara who doesn’t want to tell anyone, and it’s Oliver who’s making sure that Sara can still trust _him_ by honoring her wishes. (And it’s Digg and Felicity who can’t seem to trust that Oliver knows what he’s doing.)

Oliver can’t even pretend he doesn’t know what Sara is going through. He’d taken his own time to return to Star City, two years of it almost, after Hong Kong, but she’s _here_ now, she’s come all this way. Oliver knows that he shouldn’t keep the secrets she does, but keep them he will, in the interest of keeping her trust. One day, he’ll convince her of the truth: that her family deserves to know she’s still alive, whatever she’s done.

And if his partners aren’t okay with that… Well, they were never going to stick around forever anyway, Oliver tries to tell himself. He would have pushed them away eventually. Perhaps it’s better sooner than later, in this case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your kind comments! Chapter 12: Networking, should be up in less than a week, on September 19th. I'll be traveling that day, so it'll probably either be posted early morning or late at night.


	12. Networking

 

_September 19-21, 2013:_

“Wait!” Roy had expected some resistance, given what he is asking for – who he is asking about – but he hadn’t expected Cindy – Sin – to just flat-out run from him at the first question. He sprints after her, hops a fence, ignores traffic and the honks that follows as he dashes across a street, and ducks into an alley hot on her heels. “Wait! I’m not asking for myself!”

Sin vaults onto the top of a dumpster and lifts herself onto a fire escape, but she does pause. Roy stays on the alley below her; he could follow her, of course, but she’s stopped running now, and he doesn’t want to spook her again. (He’s learned a surprising amount about how to approach people, in his time collecting rumors for the Green Arrow).

“Who’re you asking for then?” she asks skeptically, looking down at him. She’s pale and thin, but not overly so, dressed in all black with short hair that only just sweeps over her forehead. Rough living, Roy figures, but she’s getting just enough to eat in one way or another.

“I’ve got a friend of my own,” he replies. “Only he likes green instead of black.”

It’s subtle, but Roy sees the interest in the young woman’s eyes at the words.

“I just want to know how to find your friend,” he continues.

Sin squats down on the fire escape, scrutinizing him. “What are you, his errand boy then?”

Roy opens his mouth to protest but can’t think of what to say at first. “I’m his ears in the Glades,” he counters after a moment. He’s _not_ just an errand boy – he’s provided valuable information that the Green Arrow has used to save lives – but Sin’s words bring out his drive to do more, to actually hit the streets instead of just lurking in the shadows and passing along rumors. (They bring out that lingering irritation, the feeling of being sidelined and placated. Roy wants to _fight_.)

She snorts, but she hasn’t left yet. “How ‘bout this?” she offers. “I talk to my friend and _she_ decides whether or not she wants to meet with yours.”

There’s not really anything Roy can say to that, no better offer he can think of that the woman in front of him would agree to. “How do I know you’re really going to tell her?” he asks.

Sin stands, moves to the edge of the fire escape, and drops down onto the dumpster again with a thud as her boots make impact. Bracing her hand against its edge, she leaps down to meet Roy face to face on the ground. “How do I know you’re really working with _him_?” she returns.

Both of them are silent for a moment, then, with a satisfied smirk on her face, Sin walks past him out of the alley again.

Roy watches her go for a moment and thinks about giving chase, about trying to follow her from a distance and see where she goes. He does neither. Instead, a quick glance down at his watch has him cursing. Shit, he was supposed to meet Thea for dinner fifteen minutes ago.

Pulling his phone from his pocket – his real phone, not the one the Green Arrow had given him – Roy dials from memory as he hurries out of the alley. Shit, this wasn’t even just any dinner. Roy’d been the one to ask for this. He’d had plans, things he’d been meaning to say to his girlfriend.

“Let me guess,” Thea answers on the first ring, “you got held up?”

“I just… I just lost track of time,” Roy says as he runs, “I’m on my way, I promise.”

“When you get here, maybe we can talk about how much time you’re spending with the Green Arrow, instead of your girlfriend,” Thea says, hanging up immediately afterward.

Roy pockets his phone with another curse and redoubles his efforts. Thankfully, he knows the area he’s in well and he sprints until he makes it out of the Glades. Another five minutes of much more casual walking, feeling like he doesn’t belong and trying to convince himself that the other random pedestrians on the street _aren’t_ throwing dirty looks his way, Roy arrives at the small café were Thea is waiting for him. (It’s not nearly as fancy as he thinks Thea is used to – they still put the prices on the menus, after all – but it’s more upscale than anything he would have chosen on his own.)

Thankfully, Thea’d taken a table outside, so Roy doesn’t even have to talk to the host. He slips into the chair across from her, grateful for the short distance he’d walked because it means he isn’t trying to catch his breath.

“I really am sorry,” he promises. “I wasn’t at home, and I just…”

“Lost track of time?” Thea finishes for him. Her tone is short and exasperated.

“Look, I don’t want to start off this dinner on the wrong foot,” Roy says. “I messed up, but…” he reaches across the table and takes her hand. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t want to come.”

Thea offers him a small grin. “Well, I already ordered for you,” she says, and Roy knows that’s her way of accepting his apology. Still, if he keeps this up, he doesn’t know how long Thea can keep forgiving him. He’s torn two ways, between his love for this beautiful young woman in front of him and his need to help those less fortunate in his city. To stop those who would harm others.

Dinner, thankfully, aside from the hiccup of his arrival, starts off fairly well. Roy doesn’t utter one comment about the dish Thea picked for him besides a quick word of thanks (and she knows him well enough by now that’s it’s something he might have ordered anyway, except with a bit more vegetables) and in return Thea doesn’t scold him any further for his lateness. They both know the point has been made.

But there’s still a topic Roy wants to bring up, and he’s all the more hesitant to do so because he’s already messed up today. He knows it’s not a topic Thea wants to discuss.

“Look,” he starts hesitantly, when the food is almost gone from their plates. “I… I wanted to talk to you about your mom.”

Thea’s fork hits her plate with more force than usual. She glares sharply in Roy’s direction.

“Look, my parents… I could happily go the rest of my life without seeing them,” Roy admits honestly, though something twinges in his chest when he does so. “But you actually have a relationship with your mom.”

She sneers. “You mean the woman willing to destroy the lives of thousands?”

“I mean the woman who stopped it,” Roy responds plainly.

Thea scoffs, looks away.

“She _saved_ thousands of lives, Thea,” Roy corrects. “And she only went along with Merlyn in the first place to protect you and Oliver.”

“And look how that turned out,” Thea says angrily. “Oliver barely talks to anyone, and still barely smiles. I don’t even think I’ve heard him laugh since he came back, not really. That’s not even to mention that we were both _in_ the Glades when the earthquake hit.”

“Thea…”

She shakes her head. “No, she still deserves to suffer for what she did. Avoiding her is the only way I know how to hurt her,” she states plainly.

“But it’s hurting you too,” Roy argues. His girlfriend doesn’t seem to have anything to say to that.

The waitress comes during their moment of silence, before either of them get the chance to think of what to say next. When Thea pulls out her credit card to pay, Roy knows better than to argue (this time at least) no matter how much it grates on him that he brings so little to their relationship.

“I just don’t want to see you hurt,” he says softly, once they’re alone again.

That, at least, gets Thea to also soften slightly. She manages to muster up a small smile but still shakes her head. “I’m not visiting her,” she says firmly.

There’s no point in arguing. Roy says his words for another day and doesn’t suggest that Thea come over as they leave the café. They both need to cool down, before they spend any more time together. He kisses her softly as they separate and, since he knows the tension is mostly his fault, he throws Thea short texts here and there over the next couple of hours as he grabs a random shift unloading boxes at the Mendocino County Pier. The few times she responds never fail to bring a smile to his face.

He heads home with a crappy paycheck (but money nevertheless) late that night, with mixed emotions about how the day had gone. He’d tracked down the female vigilante’s reported associate but hadn’t necessarily made any headway. He’d finally had the conversation with Thea that he’d been meaning to bring up for a while now, but it had gone poorly, just as he’d feared it would.

Still, it’s been a long day and he’s exhausted. Roy’s head hits his pillow and the next sound he hears is his alarm clock radio blaring out a Meatloaf song the next morning.

( _“I would do anything for love…”_

* * *

_“…but I won’t do that.”_ )

Felicity reaches forward, hand turning off the radio before she even processes what song is on. It’d been a late night last night, made all the more frustrating by Oliver’s refusal to speak and their need to keep Tommy in the dark. She’d set two alarms, just so she would wake up on time, and she reaches for her phone next, blindly silencing the incessant beeping.

She heaves herself from her bed and forces herself to get ready for the day.

Everything had been going so well. They’d been putting away minor criminals and corrupt one-percenters alike, dealing flawlessly with the adjusting moods in the Glades, juggling several different plots at once, and they hadn’t slipped up once. It had only been after Oliver had decided to let Lane go without even talking to Felicity and Digg that they’d stumbled, but they could have recovered from that – however much Felicity didn’t agree with his choice, they could have picked themselves up and kept going regardless.

But then Sara had come along. Felicity isn’t upset that that the other woman had survived, and she isn’t even upset that Sara has decided to follow in Oliver’s footsteps and protect her city with a mask. She’s upset with Oliver’s secrets, with his refusal to talk to them, even as they willingly follow him through mess after mess.

What else is he hiding from them? What else has he lied about? What else will he decided without first bothering to check if Felicity and Digg are okay with it?

Sometimes, Felicity, who had never known Oliver _before_ , forgets that there’d ever been a time Oliver had been missing. He never talks about the island, never discusses what happened there, or the kind of people he’d run into. He doesn’t talk about who trained him, or how he went from arrogant playboy to hardened killer.

Then something happens; she catches a glimpse of his scars, sees a particularly look in his eyes, or maybe he’ll even give out some throw away comment about learning how to throw knives, or he’ll causally drop some line about knowing how to use a sniper rifle. (Or an old friend of his returns from the dead.)

When that happens, his time away is all she can think about. Felicity is a naturally curious person – she wants to know things, doesn’t like unanswered questions. Oliver, it turns out, doesn’t have a problem with unanswered questions. She’s learned better than to ask. More often than not, he won’t answer.

Instead, she and Diggle talk on their own sometimes. Sometimes in the Arrow Cave together, as Oliver works his magic in the field. Sometimes before or after nights together, when Oliver is too busy or too broody (or too tired, even if he won’t admit it) to join them. They compare notes, share the tidbits of information they’ve managed to glean.

This thought… this is beyond anything she and Diggle have learned about those five years so far.

Sara Lance hadn’t died on the _Gambit_ , and though she and Oliver had been separated for a time (some way or another – Felicity doesn’t have a clue how) they’d found each other again on Lian Yu. And Oliver… doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care that the Lances are still suffering under the impression that Sara had drowned on the _Gambit_. He doesn’t care that Felicity and Diggle now have to look Tommy Merlyn in the face and tell him nothing about his girlfriend’s sister. Felicity doesn’t know how Oliver does it, how he goes home to Thea, how he hangs out with Laurel, how he says nothing.

He carries so many secrets inside him, and Felicity doesn’t know how they don’t spill over, can’t comprehend his refusal to speak. She wants to shout it from the rooftops, wants to knock on Detective Lance’s door and tell him that his daughter is alive. She won’t – she’ll honor Oliver’s wishes – but she wants to. She really, really wants to – how can she sit idly by watching people suffer for no reason? – but she won’t.

Of course, that leaves Felicity with no one to talk to but Digg, each of them tasked with keeping Oliver’s secrets, as her own list of secrets gets longer every day.

Listlessly, as she putters around the kitchen, preparing her breakfast for the day, Felicity clicks on the news, listening only absentmindedly, wondering if they’ll be anymore said about the List, or perhaps something about the Green Arrow, or Sara.

_“… STAR Labs cyclotron,”_ the newscaster finishes as the sound kicks in, her bland tone a welcome distraction from the thoughts running through Felicity’s head. _“In other news, official…”_

* * *

_“…sources have now finally confirmed the existence of Gotham City’s own vigilante, known only as the Batman. Rumors of his presence in the city have been circulating for months, as has the debate as to whether or not the slight drop in crime statistics can be attributed to him, but…”_

Quentin shuts off the TV, wincing into his coffee. “Damn vigilantes,” he mutters to himself.

Right now, he couldn’t care less about Gotham’s troubles because he’s got enough of his own at the moment. Just when he’d thought he’d adjusted to the Arrow, to working with a man that hadn’t hesitated to kill in the past but has been holding himself back for months, another vigilante has popped out of the woodwork in Star City. And she doesn’t have his new friend’s restraint.

She’s less active, sure, and more often than not the guys she goes after wind up seriously hurt but alive, but there’s been a few bodies here and there.

And speaking of vigilantes, the Arrow had ditched the police during their most recent team-up and Quentin’s man just got out of the hospital. The worst of it is he can’t even really be properly pissed at the man (or whatever the vigilante is – aliens are a thing now, apparently, and no matter how much he’s certain the Green Arrow isn’t one of them, he can’t completely disregard the possibility) because, though he hasn’t asked, he’s pretty sure the Arrow had only left to check up on the gas leak explosion that had happened nearby.

Their last conversation had all but confirmed that. At least Lazarov is all right, and ready to get back into the field, despite doctor’s orders. And they’d got all the dealers, in the end, _including_ Bertinelli’s right hand man. Quentin can’t deny he’s pleased at that outcome, even if they’ve yet to recover the drugs.

Shaking his head of such thoughts, the detective sets down his coffee firmly, standing to search for wherever he last left his keys. He can’t spend all his time thinking about vigilante justice when he’s got his own work to do.

_“You don’t have to go outside the law to find justice.”_

One of his favorite sayings, once. He’d made sure it was ingrained in both Laurel and… and Sara’s heads, growing up. Now even _he_ doesn’t seem to believe it anymore. But then, he’s seen too much go wrong with the justice system, too many corrupt cops he supposes – they never would have stopped Merlyn’s plan without the Arrow, Quentin has no illusions about that. And speaking of other cops…

Having located his keys, Quentin shoves his arms into his jacket sleeves, pushes his wallet and phone into his pockets, scoops up his keys in one hand and his thermos in the other. He’s got a job to get to.

Traffic is a bear, of course, but he’d left at the right time, knowing the streets of his city fairly well, and he makes it to the police station with a few minutes to spare before his shift technically begins.

He still has his desk, but the vigilante taskforce has its own conference room now, a gathering place for all of them to meet and talk and discuss their ongoing cases. There’s him, of course, lead member, with the autonomy to make his own calls on all vigilante related crimes. (Quentin knows there is talk of promoting him from detective to sergeant, based on his new role, but it hasn’t happened yet. There’s still some opposition about working with the Arrow.) Hilton, his old partner, has been given a new partner and kept their old beat.

But Quentin’s far from alone. Aside from him, there are seven other members of the new taskforce: Themba Botha, reassigned from cybercrimes, handles all of the electronic and technical aspects that Quentin doesn’t even pretend he understands; two other, lower ranking detectives, James Holyfield and Margaret Wilkerson; and four uniformed officers, Emily Hwang, Daniel Lazarov, Finley Bryant, and Raphael Gross.

Quentin trusts Botha, Hwang, and Bryant, and he doesn’t have much of a problem with Lazarov, Wilkerson, or Gross. Holyfield, on the other hand, gives him a bad feeling. The man is arrogant, often abusing his higher status over the unis, looking down on the two women in the group, and he thinks he knows better than Quentin. He supports Arrow, but, even though he’s never said as much, Quentin gets the feeling the man was fine when the vigilante was still killing people. That’s not the kind of attitude an officer of the law should ever have, regardless of the reason they set up the taskforce.

As for the rest of the group…

Botha and Bryant have few opinions either way – they want justice done, and they’ll support the Arrow while he supports that. If he breaks a few minor laws here and there they’ll deal, but they’re not fans and if he steps too far out of line neither would have any problems going after him. Maybe that’s why Quentin trusts them.

Wilkerson and Gross support some of the vigilante’s actions, but they don’t trust him one bit. They’ll bring in every criminal he ties up for him and follow after his leads, but they don’t trust his motives and they don’t trust that he’ll always consider the cops to be on his side. If they found themselves in the position to arrest the Arrow for his previous crimes, Quentin doesn’t doubt they wouldn’t hesitate. (He can respect that dedication to the law, even if that’s not his attitude anymore. Anyway, the Arrow’s a special case now, after Merlyn’s plans. This new vigilante won’t get the same latitude.)

Only Hwang and Lazarov are true fans, but whereas Lazarov seems to (secretly – at least he hides it well) worship the ground the man walks on, Hwang watches his every move critically. She trusts him and his motives and his intel, but she’s not afraid to point out when he makes a mistake and she herself doesn’t seem to be the type to ever stray from the law. Quentin likes that about her.

Botha’s already there when he gets in, Wilkerson peering over the man’s shoulder as he clicks at something on his laptop. Hwang and Gross, the one set of partners, are also already there, working on paperwork already. All four of them look up when he enters the room. (Lazarov is still on leave after his injury and, knowing Bryant, he’s probably checking in on him before he comes to work. Holyfield is probably just ‘fashionably late’.)

“Morning,” Quentin manages to grunt out. He respects these men and women, respects that they look up to him a bit, but he has not ever been, and will never be, a morning person. Give him back the late shift any day of the week. And most days they do work late, grabbing their regular eight-hour shift from four p.m. to midnight (which tends to run later than that anyway, these days at least), but there’s some sort of music festival during the evenings for the rest of the week. Shifts have been changed, hours rotated, and though no one from the task force has to go down there themselves, they’ve still be delegated to the day shift to fill in for any missing officers as necessary.

(Given that it was take the day shift, or keep the night shift but work the festival, Quentin had gladly opted for his team to take the day shift. He doesn’t need his unis caught up handling unruly crowds. He’s sort of regretting that now, but he knows he’ll be grateful for the decision once he fully wakes up.)

A chorus of echoed “mornings” greet him as he moves toward ‘his’ seat, but his phone rings before he can even pull out his chair. Not _his_ phone though, just the extra one he keeps stashed in his pocket. As much as he’s been working with these people over the past three months, and as much as the Arrow usually calls things in to the taskforce line, these days, not one of the other officers knows he’s in contact with the Green Arrow. (Not over the phone, at least. They know they talk at crime scenes on occasion.)

“’cuse me,” Quentin mutters, cursing the vigilante’s timing as he leaves the room. He makes his way outside before he answers, well aware of the many ears listening. “Don’t you sleep during the day or something?” he growls into the phone as a greeting.

_“How’s your officer doing?”_ the Arrow asks shortly. He’s not much of one for small talk either.

“Recovering,” Quentin says, and the question gets him to relax slightly. Probably what the Arrow as aiming for. “He’ll be back any day now,” he says tightly.

_“I can’t promise it won’t happen again,”_ the Arrow warns him.

Quentin doesn’t need to ask what the man is talking about. He holds back a sigh, clenching the phone tighter in his hand. The Arrow leaving the scene had gotten one of his officers hurt. But backup had been coming, and they were trained law enforcement – risk was kinda in the job description, and the Arrow had left to help others.

“I know,” he replies. It’s as close to permission as he can allow himself to voice (just as the Arrow’s words are as close to an apology as he knows he’ll get) nevermind that he has absolutely no control over where the other man goes or what he does.

_“I managed to track down the other vigilante,”_ the Arrow says, changing topics. _“She promised to try and restrain herself in the future.”_

_Try_ and restrain herself – oh yeah, fat lot of good that will do. But, based on his tone, the Arrow seems to trust the woman’s word, and Quentin has to admit that the small allowance is still quite a bit better than anything he and his taskforce could procure in such a short time. (Still, he can’t help but focus on the fact that the Arrow _didn’t_ bring her in, like he has most other criminals he’s come up against lately. That Quentin knows of. Just something to think about.)

“I hope you know this doesn’t change anything. The warrant’s still active,” he bites out.

_“I would expect nothing less,”_ the Arrow replies, and as the other vigilante hangs up Quentin would almost swear he can hear a touch of amusement through the man’s voice changer thingy.

He shakes his head, pocketing his phone once more and wondering, not for the first time, what his life has become. But there’s still work to do and crimes to solve. He heads back inside and rejoins his taskforce.

“What’ve we got this morning?” he asks.

They get to work. They sort through bogus tips and phone calls, but the finishing touches on paperwork (they’ve been busy lately, between the shoot-out at the docks last month, the forced prostitution scheme the Arrow had busted a couple nights ago, and all the would-be vigilantes in the meantime), and discuss the cases on their table. Holyfield, as expected, saunters in fifteen minutes late, without a care in the world.

Quentin sends him to talk to a tip line caller who claims he knows the female vigilante. It’s probably a bogus call, and everyone in the room knows it, but Quentin’s fed up with the other man’s arrogance. For a second, it looks like Holyfield might complain, utter some nonsense about how that’s not a detective’s job, but Quentin just raises an eyebrow and the man leaves.

“Wilkerson, Gross, stay on the warehouse evidence; thanks to our green pal’s involvement –” not to mention the other vigilante too “– it’s officially our case. I’m putting you in charge Wilkerson.”

“That’ll piss off Holy,” Botha mutters under his breath.

Gross doesn’t quite manage to hold back a snort.

Quentin rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment on it, which he thinks makes it pretty clear where he stands. “Pull in Bryant when he gets back. Hwang, you’re with me. We’ll handle this nut job who doesn’t seem to understand what the Arrow does.”

Back in July, they’d handled a case where a man had tried to emulate the Arrow, attacking the owner of a local store he was convinced was involved in money laundering. The crazy thing was, he’d been right – during the course of their investigation, Quentin’s team had discovered enough information to put both men in jail. They haven’t seen anything quite so drastic since, though there’s been a good number of attempts, but this current situation might just take the cake for odd reactions to the Arrow.

Burglary and theft at a convenience store, with graffitied green arrows painted around the destroyed store – it’s enough to hand over the crime to the task force, even if it makes Quentin seriously wonder what some people think the Green Arrow actually does. But the criminals (or criminal) had gotten away with no video evidence left intact so they’ve gotta canvas the area.

“Botha,” Quentin asks before he leaves, “which buildings on the street did you say had cameras for sure?”

Botha rattles off a couple addresses and business names, and Quentin throws back a quick “thanks” as he heads out, Hwang trailing at his heels. They take Quentin’s unmarked car to the crime scene and start immediately at one of the buildings nearby that he knows has security cameras. He’ll ask the other businesses on the street if they don’t find anything, but this is probably their most likely bet.

Hwang’s a good partner to have in the meantime. She asks questions when she needs more information, or doesn’t know something, but she doesn’t interrupt, and she lets Quentin take the lead.

“Excuse me,” Quentin says at the front desk, throwing on his ‘I’m an officer of the law and you will do what I say’ smile. He pulls out his badge. “Detective Lance of the SCPD, this is my partner Officer Hwang. I need…”

* * *

“… to look at your security footage.”

Walter freezes at the familiar voice, and the sight of the SCPD in his apartment building’s lobby. Irrationally, his heart beats faster and he has to fight back the urge to hurry back to his room and lock his door. Not out of fear of the police, of course, but because of what their presence might mean. He’d chosen this apartment building because it was reported to be one of the safest in the city, and if that’s not true anymore… Walter isn’t sure what he’ll do.

But Lance and Valarie at the front desk are still talking.

“Can I ask why?” Valarie is asking.

“Just need the one facing the street,” Lance says easily, if gruffly. “There was a theft and vandalism down the street – we’re just looking for any footage of the thieves leaving. I can get a warrant, if you need.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Valarie says easily in return. “If you’ll just let me call your boss to verify your identity first, I’ll be happy to get you the footage.”

Lance gives his assent and Walter steps fully into the lobby as Valarie picks up the phone. Hearing the reason for Lance’s visit had enabled him to relax slightly and he’s glad to see that the proper security procedures are being maintained. He knows the staff here are all well-trained.

“Hold up Valarie,” he says easily, striding toward the desk before she finishes dialing. “I can verify Detective Lance’s identity.”

Lance turns, surprised, and raises an eyebrow at him. “Mr. Steele,” he says cordially.

Walter nods in greeting. “Detective,” he returns. He turns toward Valarie. “Not to worry, Detective Lance has been a valued member of the SCPD for some time. I’ve dealt with him before, on numerous occasions.”

Valarie sets down the phone. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Steele,” she says, and turns back to the two police officers. “Do you have a specific time frame you want the footage for?”

“Two nights ago,” the uniformed officer says to her, Lance still facing Walter, “from midnight to four in the morning.”

“Good luck with your investigation, Detective,” Walter says in the meantime. He knows Lance harbors ill feelings for the Queen family, which had extended to him while he’d still been a part of that, but the truth is that there are no real feelings – good or ill – between the two of them. They’d never known each other well enough for that. Walter has a healthy respect for the other man’s skills as an officer of the law with a helping of displeasure at the way he’d treated Oliver, and by extension Thea (and Moira).

Lance nods. “Have a good day Mr. Steele,” he responds just as politely and blandly.

With one final nod of farewell to Valarie, Walter leaves the three of them to it, exiting the building and making his way to his car. Well. That had been one scare he could have done without. But he tries to put it out of his mind as he drives – Thea had unexpectedly asked to meet for lunch, and he doesn’t want his temporary fright to put off whatever she wants to speak to him about. His therapist has assured him there’s no need for him to be ashamed of his occasional moments of fear, but Walter is still reluctant to put Thea through seeing that, at the very least.

What he’d thought to himself upon seeing Lance isn’t quite true – he’s divorced from Moira Queen, yes, but he is still a part of the Queen family. Still a part of Thea’s family, and even Oliver’s, if the man will continue to let him be. Ex-stepdaughter though she may be, Walter still loves Thea dearly.

And Thea, hopefully, seems to still hold affection for him. She hugs him warmly when they meet and the restaurant and he returns the gesture wholeheartedly. He doesn’t regret leaving the Queen mansion, doesn’t regret walking away from a life that had gotten him kidnapped, but if he could go back, he does think he might change the timing of it all. Might have stayed just a bit longer, so that the young woman before him didn’t have to lose her mother and stepfather in one night.

“Now,” he says, once they’ve been seated and ordered their drinks (water for the both of them, this time – Thea’s still avoiding any sort of drug and Walter is carefully avoiding taking a refuge in alcohol, especially after all the months he spent dry), “what was it you wanted to talk to me about?” He tucks his napkin onto his lap and waits expectantly.

“It’s about… it’s about Mom,” Thea says reluctantly, avoiding his eye.

Walter feels his heart skip a beat at the mention of Moira, the woman he had once loved, who had had him imprisoned to protect herself and her children. But however complicated his feelings toward her are, they cannot be nearly as bad as Thea’s.

“What about Moira?” he asks carefully, exerting considerable effort to keep his tone level, devoid of any judgement.

“Everyone keeps telling me I should visit her,” Thea blurts out, almost desperately. “But… I… I know that’s what _she_ wants, and I don’t want to give her what she wants.”

Walter will have to tread carefully with this conversation. “And what do you want?” he asks.

Thea shakes her head hopelessly. “I don’t know.” She glances over at him. “Have you visited her?”

“No, I haven’t,” Walter states simply. “But I received my closure when I left. I said everything that I needed to say. Have you?”

Thea looks down at the table, distraught and uncertain.

“Thea,” Walter says, reaching across the table to grasp her hand in his own, “maybe you should stop thinking about what Oliver might want you to do, or Roy, or even your mother. It doesn’t matter what they want. It doesn’t matter what I think. This is your decision.”

Thea squeezes his hand back, nods. “Thanks,” she manages to say, wiping at the tears of frustration in her eyes.

“That being said,” Walter continues, “I do believe it would give you closure, if you were to speak to her. And I only ever want what’s best for you.”

Thea gives a shaky laugh and a grin. “I know. Thank you,” she repeats.

“Anytime,” he promises. It warms his heart to know how much faith she has in him. “Now,” he opens the menu, “I have heard that the sushi here is quite excellent. Any recommendations?”

Lunch passes well, and pleasantly, with comfortable talk between the two of them and no more mention of Moira. Walter teases her about Roy, and Thea blushes. She asks him about how he is, and he is honest about his recovery (though he leaves off some of the details he’s shared with Oliver).

Walter had lived with the young woman before him for over four years – had watched her become the young woman she is today. He does not have any children of his own and he is grateful that the two of them are continuing their relationship, no matter what the Queen family has gone through. With Thea, he does not even need to consider having children – she is his, as much as she wants to be.

He hugs her at the table as they stand at the end, reminded once more of all he’d missed out on when he’d been imprisoned, and kisses the top of her head. She blushes somewhat, but her returning smile is worth it.

“Come again soon,” the woman at the hostess stand says cheerfully as they leave, “and thank you…”

* * *

“… for choosing to dine with us!”

Laurel gives the hostess a bland smile as the woman seats them, not really paying attention. She’d stayed late at work today, which means that she and Tommy chose to drive separately to the restaurant for dinner, and since CNRI’s closer than their apartment, and Thea isn’t here yet, that means she’s now stuck with Oliver Queen. Alone. At a fancy restaurant. It isn’t that she and Oliver don’t get along – they’re actually getting along as best as they ever have, since he’s been back – but… there’s usually a buffer between them, these days.

Oliver though, throws on his typical flirtatious smile, smaller than it had been before the _Queen’s Gambit_ had capsized and he’d been stranded on an island for five years with men who’d tortured him, but no less charming.

“Thank you,” he says warmly, blue eyes vibrant in the restaurants particular lighting.

The hostess blushes, even though she has no idea of who Oliver is. ( _“We’ve got reservations for four,”_ he’d told the woman when he and Laurel had entered the restaurant together by pure coincidence of timing. _“Probably under Lance.”_ )

“If you need anything, just let me know,” the woman says, already half under Oliver’s spell. “Your waitress will be with you shortly.”

Oliver smiles and nods politely as the woman walks away, but all Laurel can think about is how well the three of them (four, including Thea) know each other by now. About how Oliver had known that Tommy wouldn’t have wanted to call attention to the Merlyn or Queen family names when he’d made the reservations.

And how she can see that, despite the warmth of his smiles, his eyes don’t soften as much as they used to. He doesn’t really mean any of his flirtations, which is different. Before, he would have meant every word. Stupidly, and recklessly, and so wonderfully and beautifully earnest when those words were directed at her, but just as interested when those words were directed at someone else.

(Laurel might not have been able to recognize that back then, but hindsight is twenty-twenty and learning your sister slept with your boyfriend sure is one way to kill any lingering naiveté she’d had. Besides, she’s also admitted to herself that his ability to fall in love so easily had been part of what had endeared him to her. He’d been arrogant, and childish, and afraid of commitment, Laurel knows now, but his love had always been real.)

She’s past that though, she _is_. Oliver had apologized, and he’d meant _that_ , at the very least, with a hint of the old earnestness she’d once fallen in love with.

“How’s CNRI recovering?” Oliver asks as the hostess leaves.

They’ve taken seats across the table from each other and Laurel takes a moment to hang her sweater on the back of her chair before she replies. Unknowingly, Oliver’s touched on the main reason for Laurel’s turmoil lately, the subject that’s kept her so busy and absorbed all her time lately. She and Jo are hard at work into their investigations of potential malpractice from Dr. Mark Anderson, member of the List given to her by the Green Arrow, and even Tommy chimes in from time to time.

But Oliver doesn’t know any of that. He doesn’t even know that she and Tommy had searched Merlyn Manor with the vigilante. She doesn’t even think he knows that the Arrow had visited Tommy after Malcolm’s death.

Oliver has plenty of his own secrets – she knows that, has seen evidence enough of his unwillingness to talk about the island – but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t started to make her uncomfortable, holding so many secrets of her own.

That doesn’t mean she wants to tell him. For one thing, she knows that Oliver had been upset when the vigilante had attacked his mother, but after the miniquake and the news conference that had proceeded it… Laurel doesn’t know where the hooded figure stands in Oliver’s book. Besides, he’s got enough on his plate, handling his own long road to recovery on top of Queen Consolidated and Verdant and his mother’s case.

“We’re pretty much back to where we were, before the quake,” she says instead. Should she ask about Queen Consolidated, possibly bringing up bad associations with his mother (whom Thea refuses to talk about), or go with the safer topic of Verdant? “How’s Thea?” she ends up asking, going with another topic entirely.

Oliver’s smile is small, but genuine. “Good,” he says. “Doing better. I know she really enjoys having some girl time, so, thanks for that.”

“It’s not a problem,” Laurel replies honestly. “I’m kinda surprised we haven’t hung out more before this.”

Oliver only nods. He’s not much of a talker, these days, not very open. At least, not with her.

“Although,” Laurel continues, trying to widen his smile (she misses it, however much she’s grown to love Tommy’s even more), “there was a reason you called her Speedy.”

The statement does get his smile to widen ever so slightly.

Laurel can remember those days, when they were all so much younger, so much more carefree.

“She always wanted to be included,” Oliver agrees.

“No,” Laurel contradicts, “she just wanted to hang out with her big brother.” As always, when talking about siblings, when speaking about the past, Laurel feels the familiar pang of sorrow that she’s become very acquainted with these past six years. (She misses Sara so much, sometimes.)

But just like that, she and Oliver are talking. It’s light and short and not very personal – they reminisce on days gone by, carefully skirting around their past relationship and Sara’s death, avoiding all mention of the present, and how they are and how they’ve been doing – but it’s conversation, and it’s easy, not awkward in the slightest.

Laurel can’t help but remember how much she’d loved this man, once. (Still does, she thinks, but it’s not the same. He’s not the same, and truthfully, even without five years on an island, neither is she.)

It doesn’t take long for Thea to arrive, and then Tommy gets there, and the four of them are grinning and laughing as they bring up embarrassing stories and simply _relax_. Laurel is so glad they’d all agreed to this, so glad they’re all still friends. It’s different, with Thea instead of Sara being the fourth wheel to their trio, but… But Laurel loves each and every person at this table, and she’s not alone. It’s time she remembers that.

As dinner is cleared and they wait for dessert, Tommy clears his throat.

“As fun as this has been,” he starts, “I actually had a reason for getting us all together. I have an announcement to make, and I wanted you three to be the first to know,” he glances over at her, grinning, and Laurel smiles back even through her mild confusion. His good moods are always contagious. “I’m reopening my mother’s clinic in the Glades.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence at his words. Nobody displeased, Laurel thinks, just taken aback. She herself is reminded of how much she loves _this_ man, _now_.

“Not quite reopening,” Tommy amends in the silence. “It’ll be a different location, but…”

“That’s amazing Tommy,” Laurel says as he trails off, looking around expectantly.

“Really?” he asks, unusually shy, unsure of himself.

“Of course,” she promises, taking his hand.

“Yeah,” Thea agrees from across the table, beaming.

Tommy looks that way, and Oliver nods as well, a small, pleased smile on his face.

Now looking a bit embarrassed, Tommy shrugs. “I just… Verdant’s the first job I ever had, and it’s great, but… I want to do something more.” He looks at her. “Like you.” He glances across the table, at Thea and Oliver. “Like…” he trails off, shakes his head. “Like the thousands of other people who help this city.”

Like the Green Arrow, Laurel thinks to herself, but she doesn’t know if Tommy’s told Oliver or Thea about his association with the hero either.

“How long have you been planning this?” Laurel asks, thinking of the folders she’s seen scattered about the apartment lately, the business calls he’s been taking in the evenings. She’d always just assumed he was busy planning things for Verdant.

“A few months,” Tommy admits, and then, eagerly, as they pepper him with questions, tells the three of them all about it.

They stay long after desert is finished, talking logistics and plans and what’ll be required, offering to help in any way possible. Tommy mostly wants to do it on his own, but he doesn’t entirely decline their help.

As she leaves the restaurant, hand in hand with him, Thea and Oliver at their sides, Laurel looks up at the night sky, at the few stars twinkling brightly through the light pollution, and can’t help but think…

* * *

… how lovely it is to be alive just then.

Sin thinks that fairly often these days, at least when she’s around Sara. Sure, her life’s still shit, but she’ll never stop being grateful for what the other woman did for her. It’s why she’s taken her time with Abercrombie’s offer, thought long and hard about what to tell Sara.

She knows perfectly well that the other woman doesn’t need protection, but Sin doesn’t want to be the cause of any more hardship either.

She glances away from the window, where she’d been looking out at the night sky, and studies Sara’s pensive face. The Green Arrow’s a big deal in the Glades, more so than for the rich of Star City’s downtown and suburbs. He’s a hero to those just trying to get by, day to day. A scourge to those who make their livings terrorizing others. After all she’s heard, Sin _would_ trust the other man with her life (but only her life) despite the fact that she’s never even seen him.

Still, he might be territorial. Might not like Sara’s way of doing things. And maybe the good-looking idiot had been lying, maybe he was speaking up on someone else’s behalf. You can never be too careful.

“Tell him about the clock tower,” Sara decides after a moment, “but just in case –” her gaze slides over Sin carefully “– I trust you can find somewhere to be tomorrow night?”

Sin shifts uncomfortably at the idea of scooping out one of her old hiding spots after the few wonderful weeks she’s spent here, with Sara – who knows who’s taken them over by now – but it’s not like she doesn’t have a few relatively safe hiding holes tucked throughout the city, as well as a few friends she can stay with here and there. She nods. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

Sara, like she always does, sees right through her bluff. She squares her shoulders then and looks Sin right in the eyes.

“I’m not kicking you out,” she promises, words deep and sincere in a way that Sin’s never really heard from anyone else in her life. “I just want you to be safe.”

With anyone else, Sin might doubt the promise, but after everything, she trusts Sara. (She thinks she might be a little in love with Sara, but to be honest she’s not quite sure if she’s _in_ love or if she loves Sara like the sister she never had. She hasn’t felt enough love in her life recently to remember the difference.) Maybe it’s the wrong decision, to trust this secretive woman who very clearly does not need to live on the streets in the way Sin does, but it’s a decision Sin has no hesitations in sticking with. She nods a second time, more confidently than the first. “Alright,” she agrees.

Sin’s not about to go track down Abercrombie just then – darkness has already fallen, and she knows better than that – but she’s not ready for sleep either. She and Sara leave the clock tower together, going their separate ways, Sara in wig and mask.

There’s a burger joint on Henry that closes at ten, and the pickings are usually good in the dumpster out back immediately after. Plus, depending on who’s on shift, Sin sometimes gets something fresh cooked as well. (She knows perfectly well the boys doing it expect something in return, but even if she’s not ever going to go there, she’s not above a bit of manipulation to get a good bite to eat every now and again.)

She makes her way down the more well-lit streets of the Glades, trying to keep in mind what Sara has been trying to teach her: eyes and ears both alert. Her hand in her pocket keeps a firm grip on her small pocket-knife. Verdant is close by – that club the idiot Queen heir had decided to build out of his father’s abandoned factory – and its rich clientele and security offer a small measure of protection as well. So Sin swings that way most nights, and as she passes by the loud, pounding music swells suddenly as a door opens…

* * *

… and then fades again as the door closes behind him. John makes his way down the stairs to the sight of Felicity already at the computers, and the Green Arrow costume missing from the mannequin.

The night passes normally enough, between the three of them, but there’s no hiding the tension in the basement. Oliver’s replies are even shorter than normal, and no one so much as breathes a word of other vigilantes, or even Tommy.

It’s when Oliver gets back that things go to shit.

He switches costumes, hangs up the hood, and then says, “I spoke to Lance this morning.” Yesterday morning, technically, given the current time, but Digg’s more hung up on the irritation that he’s now taking care of Arrow business without them around, and without consulting them. “Told him the other vigilante shouldn’t be a problem.”

It’s information that John’s glad to have, but he’s not sure if it’s true. Oliver hadn’t brought in Lane, and John wonders if his judgement is similarly clouded when it comes to Sara. Maybe even more so, since he knows her.

“And did you mention Alexa Lane?” Felicity bites out.

“No,” Oliver says simply, throwing her a glance.

“Did you say _anything_ about the explosions?”

“You know I didn’t,” Oliver says, voice hard.

“You don’t think Lance deserves to know that? You don’t think he’s not worrying about whether or not they’ll keep happening?!”

“Mentioning Lane would only let him know that they weren’t accidental in the first place.”

Felicity stands, taking a step forward into Oliver’s space. “You can’t keep everything a secret, just because _you_ decide other people don’t deserve to know!”

She’s not just talking about Lane anymore.

“Whoa, whoa!” John steps forward, making his way to Felicity’s side. With one hand lightly latched onto her wrist and the other completely extended in the open space between her and Oliver (as if to hold Oliver back – as if Oliver would actually attack) he stops the impending argument in its tracks. It’s been building all week, but he has no intention of letting it explode. Not this way, at least – they can let off their anger alone, before they all say something to each other they’ll regret tomorrow.

Oliver’s eyes, hard and wary, flicker down oh so quickly and subtly, taking in Digg’s stance and no doubt noticing the way John stands at Felicity’s side, rather than properly between the two of them. He nods once, harsh and unforgiving, and takes a step back.

John hadn’t meant to take sides quite so literally – he’d moved quickly and instinctively to break up his two friends – but the truth is he does agree with Felicity, and he is pissed with Oliver’s most recent decisions.

“Maybe we should take a break,” John says carefully. Tempers have been running high in the foundry the past couple of days, and with the way things have been going, they’re not going to get any better anytime soon.

“Maybe we should,” Oliver replies harshly.

But they call all hear the nuance in his voice. They all know what a break means, because they all know Oliver’s not going to give up the Green Arrow. A break means him, on the streets by himself, without backup waiting in the foundry. ( _“Maybe we should,”_ Oliver had said. They all know he means _maybe_ you _should_.)

But John’s pissed, and Felicity’s pissed, and Oliver keeps making his own decisions anyway, keeping his own secrets. He hasn’t been consulting them, hasn’t been discussing things – not even after the fact.

John knows he’s not thinking straight, but if Oliver wants to spend a few days on his own, then fine, let him spend a few days on his own. It’s better than them screaming at each other, at any rate.

“I think that would be a good idea,” Felicity says, equally as harsh. She grabs her bag off the table, fierce and unrestrained in her emotions. John shoots Oliver one last disappointed look, then follows her up the stairs.

It’s past three in the morning, but despite the full night, he’s too wound up to return home, or even think about sleeping just then. Besides, it’s the weekend. And with his job ‘on hold’ and his relationship with Carly over, it’s not like he has anywhere to be later.

He thinks fondly of Carly and Andy Jr and has a brief, fleeting moment of contemplation. Their relationship had fallen apart for numerous reasons, but Digg had let it happen, because he hadn’t seen himself ever telling her the truth about what he did at night. Now that he’s not helping Oliver…

But no, however frustrated John is, he holds no illusions that this is permanent. He doesn’t _want_ it to be permanent. He likes what they do, likes helping people and saving lives. He’s making a difference in his city, a real difference, and there’s not many who can say that. If only Oliver would get his head out of his …

John grits his teeth and pushes aside his anger. He can contemplate the situation later, when he’s able to think clearly. For now, he thinks briefly about hitting a bar or just grabbing a beer at home, and discards that idea given his current state of mind. In the end, he tracks down a twenty-four-hour gym (near the university, of course) and proceeds to lose himself in a good workout.

With that behind him he manages to get some restful sleep when he finally does return home, without dreams or nightmares, but he still wakes the next morning full of turmoil, well aware that he…

* * *

…she has a decision to make.

After last night, after seeing Tommy make the decision to reopen his mother’s clinic, to do something rather than just wallow in the knowledge of what their parents had tried to do, she’d had a thought of her own.

Oliver’s going into Queen Consolidated again on Monday, to speak to the board about the next CEO. Tommy’s going to be busy in the future, running a clinic. It’s not that neither of them has any more time for Verdant, it’s just that they have less time, and Thea still needs something to do.

Her solution would give her a job, possibly give Roy a job (and get him off the streets), and give her something to do with her days. It’s not quite giving back to the community, helping people the way Laurel and Tommy are or plan to, but it’s a start.

The only question is, what is she willing to give up to get it? There’s no way Oliver’s going to just _let_ her run a bar, not at her age, no matter that she’s an adult now and he’s not her father. But if Thea makes a deal, strikes a bargain, tells him how much she needs this… Then she stands a chance.

But she hasn’t decided what to give up yet and she hasn’t decided who to talk to about it first.

_Scratch that,_ she thinks to herself suddenly. _Tommy. Definitely Tommy._ He’ll be easier to convince, and she knows that for a fact. She pulls out her phone then and there and dials the familiar number.

Tommy picks up on the third ring. “Tommy Merlyn speaking,” he says, which is so different from how he used to answer the phone that Thea blinks and takes a moment to respond.

“Don’t you check your caller ID anymore?” she asks, teasing.

“Thea!” his tone is pleased and delighted, a slight laugh underneath it all at the joke. “Sorry, wasn’t paying attention I guess.”

Thea laughs too. “That’s nothing new,” she scolds him lightly, even though it isn’t quite true anymore. Tommy’s changed, since the quake, since the revelation of his father’s (and her mother’s) plans. They all have.

Tommy chuckles again at the words. “Thanks, Speedy,” he says easily, sarcasm light in his tone. “What’cha calling for?”

“I wanted to talk to you about Verdant.”

“Verdant? What about it?”

“Well, you said you were working on re-opening your mother’s clinic, and I just thought that, well… that maybe you and Oliver would need some help at Verdant. I mean, Oliver’s busy enough with Queen Consolidated, and starting a clinic can’t be easy, and…”

“And…?” Tommy trails off questioningly. “Are you trying to recommend someone for the job?”

Thea fidgets slightly, grateful that he can’t see her nerves – only hear them. “Not exactly?” she says, though it comes out as more of a question.

There is a moment’s pause. “Are you _asking_ for the job?” Tommy asks in surprise.

“Maybe,” Thea says defensively. “Everyone’s always saying I need something to do.”

“I don’t think running a bar is exactly what Oliver had in mind,” Tommy says, but his tone is distracted. Thoughtful, she thinks (hopes).

She waits, slightly impatient and even more grateful that Tommy can’t see that too.

“Look,” Tommy says after a moment. “I won’t deny that I was going to talk to Oliver about hiring someone to help out, but this isn’t just my decision. I don’t own the place, I just run it, remember? Have you talked to Oliver about this?”

Thea is painfully aware of the fact that Oliver is just downstairs in the kitchen, making breakfast. “I was going to talk to him next.”

“I don’t want to come between siblings,” Tommy says good-naturedly, making sure Thea knows he’s somewhat joking. “Talk to Oliver. But… well. I’m not saying no.”

Thea’s grin is wide. “ _Thank you_ ,” she says sincerely.

Tommy chuckles. “Don’t thank me yet,” he says, “you still have to talk to Oliver.”

Her grin fades slightly at the words, but not in fear or dread, just… anticipation. Anxiety. She needs this, she’s startled to realize, just like Oliver has always said she does. (And maybe he’s right about a few other things too, things Thea hasn’t wanted to consider.) So her grin fades, but her determination doesn’t. She just needs to make Oliver see sense, convince him that this is what he’s been telling her to do all along.

She forces her grin to return, chuckles lightly through the phone. “Don’t worry about that,” she tells Tommy, forcing confidence through her bones.

“Good luck,” Tommy replies. “He won’t know what hit him.”

That’s right – because Thea can handle this. She hangs up with one final goodbye and makes her way downstairs.

Oliver looks up when she enters the kitchen, throwing a small smile her way. “Morning,” he says.

“I want a job at Verdant,” Thea responds, clearly and plainly, making sure there’s no room for an argument in her tone.

Oliver stares at her, slightly taken off guard. “What?”

“Look, you’re busy enough with Queen Consolidated, and now Tommy’s got his new clinic to worry about. Let me help manage Verdant.”

“Thea, you’re not even old enough to drink.” His breakfast is forgotten as he turns to face her clearly.

“I’m old enough to run a bar though. I need a job, Roy needs a job, and Verdant needs the help – it’s a win-win situation all around.”

Her big brother raises an eyebrow at her, but she stares him down steadfast. She’s made her decision, and she’s not budging.

“Give me this job, and I’ll take a couple classes. Online,” Thea capitulates, hoping he doesn’t pick up on the fact that she’d intended to use her college education as a bargaining tool all along.

“Have you talked to Tommy about this?”

“He already said you could use the help, but he said he didn’t want to come between siblings.”

Oliver quirks a smile at that, which is good: it means he’s not too put off by her request.

“You’re the one who’s been telling me to get out of the house more often. And don’t even say that I don’t know anything about running a business, because you didn’t either.”

Oliver thinks for a moment, his stare unwavering and gaze sharp. Thea almost falters in the face of it – he’s not glaring or anything, but there’s an intensity there that is nothing like the Oliver she’d lost – but she holds her ground.

“Alright,” Oliver says finally. “I’ll talk to Tommy, work out the logistics.”

It’s not an outright yes, doesn’t give her a start date or a position title ( _head manager_ , Thea pleads to no one), but it’s something, and she latches onto it fiercely.

“Thanks,” she says, and then, more softly, “I… I think I’m going to go visit Mom.”

Oliver’s gaze still watches her carefully, but softer, with a kinder sort of intensity. She’d thought about using the announcement as a bargaining chip too but… it hadn’t felt right. Not that.

“Will you, uh, will you go with me?” Here she is, having just got permission to practically run her brother’s business (she hopes), and suddenly she feels like she’s ten years old again, looking up to Oliver for protection.

But Oliver doesn’t judge, not visibly. “Of course,” he promises, and however much Thea doesn’t want to act like a little kid again, it’s a weight off her shoulders.

She smiles, grateful, and moves forward to give her brother a hug. He’s tall and solid in her arms, and stiff too, but he relaxes slightly, engulfs her, and Thea remembers yet again how glad she is to have him back.

She’d missed him so much.

“Thanks,” she says again, separating, pulling apart, and she gives him a grin that’s only partially forced. “I’m gonna go read up on how not to tank your business.”

He quirks a grin at that as she leaves the room. “Very funny,” he calls after her.

Thea’s laugh at that is genuine as she focuses on the good news, trying to put the upcoming visit with her mother out of her mind. She heads up to her room and immediately calls Roy.

He’s… a bit less enthusiastic than she might have expected, at the prospect of them possibly working together, but Thea barely notices, too caught up in the euphoria of what awaits her.

When the conversation’s over, she does exactly what she’d told Oliver she was going to do, if with a bit more seriousness than her words had implied, and dives into her computer, clicking through webpage after webpage about small businesses and managing nightclubs and anything else that she thinks could possibly be relevant.

The day flies by, faster than they usually do these days, but Thea’s aware enough of the time to recognize when the clock strikes Verdant’s opening time. She’s not running it, not even an employee yet – she doesn’t even know if Oliver’s talked to Tommy today – but… She’s committed now. She’s made up her mind.

“Thea!” Tommy says in greeting, spotting her leaning against the bar an hour after opening. “You know, you’re still only eighteen.”

Thea gestures with the cup in front of her. “That’s why this is water,” she says. Verdant doesn’t card for admittance, and she thinks she could pass for of-age if she flirted well enough but wanting to work at a nightclub doesn’t mean she’s quite ready to forgo her sobriety. One day maybe, when her self-control is a bit better; Thea’s never going to do drugs again, but she wouldn’t mind a little wine or the occasional cocktail in her life.

Tommy grins brightly at her. “Come to see the place already?”

She grins back at him. “Talk to Oliver yet?” she replies.

He shakes his head. “Nah, just a couple texts. No details yet. He had some CEO stuff today.”

They both make a face at the thought, then share a laugh. Thea has no doubt that running Queen Consolidated is very, very different from running a nightclub.

“Well c’mon then, let me show you around.”

Thea takes up the offer gladly, though there’s not much to see and she’s back in front of the bar within another half-hour. “Mind if I just mingle for a bit?” she asks.

“You flash a fake ID, and you’re out, same as anyone else,” Tommy warns her with a grin. It’s a joke in reference to the fact that she’s the sister of the owner, not her previous bad habits. (Tommy wouldn’t joke about that.)

Thea laughs and waves her brother’s best friend away, back to his job. She turns to the writhing crowd. She might not be able to drink, but she can still dance, can’t she? No laws against that.

_“Just know you’re not alone,”_ the song blaring out of the speakers declares…

* * *

_“…because I’m gonna make this place your home…”_

The music is pounding in the club, the people are having a good time. Upbeat tunes bolster already high spirits and Tommy laughs with a patron, takes a selfie with another, and tells the bartender he’ll be back in a few as he leaves the dance floor.

He’s in a good mood. Careful examinations of the books from the last couple of months have revealed that Verdant hasn’t really suffered in the wake of his father’s actions. He’s narrowed down the building he wants to buy for his health clinic to just a handful of options. He and Oliver have started talking again, and he and Oliver and Laurel are no longer awkward and uncertain around each other.

The Green Arrow’s doing good. Tommy’s doing good. Oliver’s improving. Thea’s found something to do with her time (hopefully – he and Oliver still need to discuss it, but Tommy’d still seen the light in her eyes as he’d given her a tour of Verdant only moments ago). Laurel is still as beautiful as ever. (Tommy’s heart stings at the thought that he’s still lying to her, but in every other aspect it soars at how much he loves her. Besides, he isn’t helping out the Green Arrow all that much anymore.) Even Detective Lance has softened to him slightly.

His good mood carries him down into the Green Arrow’s lair, as brightly lit and as gleaming as it has been since Tommy’d helped Felicity spruce up the place. The mannequin is empty, but neither Felicity nor Digg are anywhere to be seen. The emptiness of the place dampens his mood and he frowns, wandering over to the bathroom just to double check.

No, he’s definitely alone. And now that he’s thinking about it, has he talked to either Felicity or Diggle all week?

He pulls out his phone. No, nothing. His text chain with Oliver doesn’t indicate anything’s up, but then, the man never talks about Arrow business on the phone. (He’d actually explicitly told Tommy not to.)

Ah well, it’s not like they don’t have lives outside of the Green Arrow. Things happen. Hopefully Oliver’s taking it easy until tomorrow night, when they come back.

He seats himself at the computer chair and turns on the mic.

“Hey man, you busy?”

Tommy knows better than to expect a response immediately – sometimes Oliver’s not in a position to talk – but he waits expectantly anyway.

_“Not at the moment,”_ Oliver says shortly. He’s not very talkative as the Green Arrow, his words gruffer, his tone harsher. Tommy’s gotten used to it by now, more or less.

His mind flashes back to the image of Oliver from over a month ago, leg covered in blood, not even wincing in pain. He definitely doesn’t want to be the distraction that makes his friend slip up.

“Cool,” he says, and he’s pleased with how casual his tone is. “Just needed a few minutes break from the music. Need me to do anything?”

There’s a pause – maybe Oliver is in the middle of something, or maybe he’s watching something that just caught his eye – then, _“No.”_

Alright then. Tommy’s learned not to take that tone personally. He leans back in the chair, pulling out his phone again. If Oliver needs him in the next five minutes or so before he heads back upstairs, he’ll ask. (Tommy hopes.)

His messages with Felicity stop on the fourteenth – two weeks ago. They’d been debating the best coffee in the city. Tommy had named some fancy rich joint he’s been going to since high school, Felicity had protested with the name of some small mom-and-pop shop tucked away downtown, pretty close to Queen Co., and they’d been going back and forth with proper rating criteria.

Tommy’s last message reads: _alright. call it a draw. least u didn’t say Starbucks._

Felicity has yet to respond.

_what's up?_ He sends. _keeping busy?_

If she’s not here, there’s a good chance she’s sleeping, so he doesn’t expect a reply immediately. Instead he backs out of the screen, switching to his text chain with Diggle. Digg’s not really much of a texter – he uses his phone to convey relevant information, not have informal chats, but Tommy’s last message with him is from even before the fourteenth.

Tommy frowns at that. He hasn’t heard anything in the news about any new crises the Green Arrow’s been involved in lately and, while he knows he’s not really involved anymore, surely Oliver would have told him if something was wrong. Wouldn’t he?

Tommy hates the uncertainty that lingers in his gut, but he also knows he can’t linger long in the basement. Not with Thea upstairs.

“Heading upstairs,” Tommy says into the mic, and then, on impulse, “let me know when you get back.” He waits for Oliver’s acknowledgement before he heads up. Something doesn’t feel right to him.

The thought stays with him the rest of the night, until Verdant is silent and empty and his car is the only one in the lot. (Oliver’s motorbike, he knows, is hidden somewhere. He’s never asked where.)

Lately, he hasn’t been staying after his shift, because the hour of his arrival home is just one more thing he’d have to lie to Laurel about, but…

_I’ll just say I needed to talk to Oliver,_ Tommy reasons to himself, _if she asks._ Guilt still swirls in his gut, but at the moment he’s more worried about Team Arrow (as Felicity sometimes says).

Oliver’s already down there, in front of the computers when Tommy descends the steps.

“Everything alright?”

“Fine,” Oliver says, without looking up.

He’s… tenser than usual. Tommy’s starting to be able to read his best friend again. Oliver… he’s not… Saying he’s in a bad mood wouldn’t quite cover the nuance of the situation. This is something a little different than that. The problem is, he doesn’t know anything about the situation.

“Where’re Digg and Felicity?”

“Home.”

Not really an answer. Tommy could have guessed that, simply given from the fact that they aren’t _here_.

“You sure everything’s alright? I actually haven’t seen any of you three much the past couple of days.” Weeks, maybe. It’s been a while since he’s been downstairs.

“Everything’s fine Tommy,” Oliver says shortly. “There’s just a lot going on.” He gives no indication that he intends to fill Tommy in on any of it.

Then tension in the room is thick enough to be sliced by one of Oliver’s arrows. And Tommy’s torn between pressing and leaving. He hates lying to Laurel.

“I… just, uh…” He bites his lip. Oliver barely reacts to his stammering. “I’m gonna, uh, head home for the night,” he decides. “Just… let me know if there’s anything I can do? To help?”

Oliver nods once, gaze flickering up and down Tommy’s form. “Thanks,” he says, and turns back to his computers.

Tommy leaves wondering if he’s made the right choice. Wondering if he wants to know what’s going on.

Wondering, based on Felicity’s and Digg’s silence and Oliver’s taciturn mood, if Oliver would even tell him the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter this time, the longest yet I think. I'm not as happy with some of these transitions as I am with others, but, oh well. They'll do I guess. I wanted to try something new. We'll get back to Oliver's POV with Chapter 13: Torn Two Ways, posted September 25th.


	13. Torn Two Ways

_September 25, 2013, early morning:_

Oliver hears the screams from two blocks away, his head swiveling toward the sound, his feet already moving before he’s fully aware of what’s happening. By the time he gets there the conflict has already escalated severely from whatever actions had prompted the scream in the first place. The victim’s shirt is lying torn on the ground a few feet away, though thankfully she’s still wearing her bra. One man leers from the side, pinning her left arm above her head against the dirty alley wall. Another pins her right, his left hand trailing up her bare stomach as he leans over and kisses her violently, muting her screams. A third man stands only a step back from the other two, eagerly awaiting his turn.

There are only two good things about the situation.

One: that Oliver was near enough to hear the screams.

Two: Oliver’s angle of attack is absolutely perfect. He nocks and fires an arrow in a matter of seconds, and it goes halfway through the ringleader’s left arm, pushing him backward off the woman with the force of it and sending him to his knees with the pain of it. He lets out a mangled scream, and the other three people in the alley freeze momentarily. Before anyone else can react, Oliver sends a second arrow flying.

This one goes halfway through the left shin of the man still holding the woman to the wall and he lets out his own (very satisfying) scream, letting go of his victim’s arm as he doubles over in pain. The woman takes off at a run, the third thug just behind her (fleeing Oliver, rather than chasing), and Oliver notes the direction she’s heading as he puts an arrow through this man’s shin as well.

He’s feeling especially brutal at the moment.

Hopping down the fire escape, then leaping from there onto the top of a dumpster, Oliver makes his way to the ground level. He knocks out the second thug (miraculously still standing, even if he’s hunched over his injured leg) with a single punch, uncaring how the man falls, and approaches the first. This one is on his knees, clutching at the arrow in his shoulder, trying to stem the blood flow. Oliver kicks him in the stomach, then punches him to he falls fully to the ground, groaning in agony.

By then, the third thug has curled into a protective ball on the ground, whimpering in pain (and probably in anticipation of more pain as well). As much as he would like to beat him to a pulp, Oliver leaves him alone. The woman is getting further away with each second he wastes, and in her current state she might not be headed towards safety. With quick, efficient movements that ignore the men’s injuries, Oliver zip-ties each of the three criminals, ensuring that they aren’t going to go anywhere, and sets off after the woman. (He almost calls for Felicity or Diggle to let the police know where they are, but he’s on his own tonight. For the foreseeable future. Potentially forever, until this gets him killed or caught. He’ll take care of it himself, eventually.)

Little tracking is involved – the victim hasn’t gone far. She’s hunkered down in the first side alley a little way down, back to the wall, knees to her chest as she sobs. Oliver approaches cautiously, taking care to make his presence known. She flinches back at the sound at first, glancing upward wildly, pupils blown up in fear, but she pauses as she takes in his silhouette in the shadows.

Oliver knows better than to get any closer, and he can understand her not wanting him to. He holds up the jacket he’d wrestled from the third thug – her shirt had been beyond saving, and it was all he had on hand at the moment – and tosses it to the ground at her feet. She hesitates but a moment, then reaches forward and pulls it to her chest. She doesn’t put it on properly right then though, just holds it in front of her like a shield, spreading it out to cover her.

“Thank you,” she says, and her voice is remarkably steady even as she trembles.

“Do you want to file a police report?” Oliver asks. Not everyone does. (He’s calling the police regardless, and these men won’t be attacking anyone for a long time now – hopefully never again, if he’s put enough fear into them – but whether or not she wants to be here when the police arrive is up to her.)

The voice modulator is on when he speaks, but he keeps his tone relatively gentle, for the Green Arrow at least.

She hurriedly shakes her head. “No, I… I just want to go home.”

“Is there a friend you can call?”

If she doesn’t want to be here when the police arrive then she needs to leave.

She shakes her head again, then says something that Oliver would never have expected to hear, not in a million years. “Can you… can you walk me home?”

He pauses, struck dumb by the question. Stillness fills his limbs.

“It’s, it’s just a couple blocks,” the woman says quickly, face falling at his silence. “I didn’t mean, I don’t want –”

“Alright,” Oliver says gruffly, cutting her off. It’s just a couple blocks. She’s not a threat. And it’s practically pitch black out, especially in this part of the Glades. “I’m going to call the police first.”

She shakes her head frantically. “No, I don’t –”

Oliver cuts her off again. “We’ll be gone by the time they arrive.”

The worry melts slightly from her face, but she’s still watching him warily as he pulls out his phone and texts the phone he’d handed over to the general taskforce (no need to bother Lance with this). He puts in little more than the address, the number of attackers, and the need for an ambulance, then turns back to the woman.

She’s wearing the jacket properly now, zipped up all the way to her throat, and her hands shake, but there’s a determined expression on her face.

Keeping his head lowered somewhat, the hood helping to shadow his face, Oliver nods once, then takes a few steps backward, gesturing for her to proceed him out of the alleyway.

She gives him the smallest of smiles, tremulous and uncertain, and musters up the strength to start walking. They leave the alleyway together, Oliver three steps to the side and half a step back, but careful not to leave her line of sight. This is… this is probably the strangest thing he’s ever done in costume, and one of the hardest too.

The Green Arrow had always been meant as a mask, a persona for the monster inside Oliver Queen. It had been a way of staying hidden while releasing his inner beast.

This, here and now, walking this woman home at two in the morning, is neither particularly hidden nor even beast-like.

He could have said no. He’d considered it. But he hadn’t.

The walk is silent and short, just as she’d said. Neither of them speak, though she throws repeated glances in his direction, as if checking that he’s still there, or in disbelief that he’d agreed to accompany her. (Or maybe she’s still afraid of him, no matter that she’d asked for his protection.)

Oliver keeps his feet steady, his arms still. He ignores the car that drives by, the two other people out and about that pass them, stopping and staring. He ignores his instincts that scream about how exposed he is, how dangerous it is to be out in the open. His ears are working overtime, picking up the approaching sirens in the background, and though he ignores the staring, he carefully maps the location of everyone they come across, ready to spin on less than a second’s notice if they’re attacked.

At her apartment building, she hugs herself tightly, arms wrapped around her middle, pausing even before she walks away.

“Thanks,” she says again.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Oliver growls out. He stands perfectly still, even as someone else leaves the apartment building, stares in astonishment at the sight before them, and then snaps a picture on their phone.

The woman gives him one last shaky smile, one last searching look, and then she hurries into the building, away from prying eyes.

Oliver watches her leave until she’s out of sight, turns his head toward the man still standing there in a gesture that has him flinching, regardless of whether the other man can see his glare, and then simply walks away.

If this were any other night, he might call Felicity, ask her to find out who the woman was and check in on her social media the next few days. Or he might call Diggle, double check that the police arrested the thugs who’d targeted her, see if there were any other crimes in the neighborhood.

But he’s on his own now.

He disappears down a dark alley, climbs to a rooftop, and listens to his city.

* * *

* * *

_September 27, 2013:_

Six years. Laurel wakes up with the number in her head, the date more memorable to her than any birthday or holiday ever could be. It’s been six years since the _Queen’s Gambit_ had sunk beneath the waves of an unforgiving ocean, its crew and passengers gone forever.

Oliver’s been back almost a year now, Oliver had survived against all odds, but Sara is still dead and gone. Laurel lays in bed, listening to Tommy slumbering beside her, and fights back tears like she does every September 27th.

But Laurel has never been one to need a moment for her grief – she’s the kind of person who prefers a distraction, who needs to work through it. Sitting around, taking a moment to absorb the intense feelings, might work for other people, but not for her. It’s a Friday and CNRI still needs her. Right now, Laurel needs to feel needed. She needs to feel useful. She needs to not spend the day thinking of all the reasons why she misses her baby sister. She’s like her mother that way, like the Dinah Lance she’d been named for who had left so as not to be surrounded by memories of her lost daughter.

But she’s also like her father, who’s never fully able to stop thinking about Sara, to stop remembering. It’s a blessing and a curse. Tonight, she and her father will visit Sara’s grave. Today, Laurel has work to go to. She pulls herself out of bed, lets a few tears fall in the shower, then pulls herself together as she does her hair and makeup.

Tommy sleeps through it all, as he usually does after a night at Verdant, but when Laurel opens the fridge for breakfast there’s a plate of pancakes just waiting to be warmed up, complete with sliced strawberries and a note that says _Love you_. She almost tears up right then and there. A year ago, before Oliver’s return, Tommy hadn’t known quite what to do, the two of them still adjusting to each other, but this is so in line with the loving and caring man he’s become.

As Laurel heats up her breakfast, she takes the note and slips it into her purse. It’s something she’s going to want to hold on to.

* * *

Oliver’s grave is gone, the grass already having reclaimed the dirt that had replaced it, but Robert Queen’s grave still sits on their property where it’s been since 2007. Six years ago. Thea hasn’t visited since before Moira’s press conference, but the ritual she engages in these days is so engrained in her that she sinks down to the grass without hesitation, sitting cross-legged, and sets down a single rose at her father’s headstone.

“Hey Dad,” she says, melancholy and proud and grief-stricken. “A lot… a lot’s changed since we last talked. I… I found out about what you and…” But she pauses and swallows, uncertain if she can say it. She’s been so angry at Moira lately that she hasn’t stopped to consider what her mother’s actions mean about her father.

From the way Moira tells it, she’d only joined after Robert’s death, to take his place after Malcolm sunk the _Gambit_. Thea hasn’t thought too long and hard about that, but now that she’s agreed to visit Moira…

How can she be angry at her mother, and not blame her father too? Except Moira’s _here_ , and her father isn’t, and Thea’s not sure she has rage in her heart for the man whose body is lost somewhere in the ocean. But then, if she’s not angry with her father, how can she be angry with her mother?

“I found out about what you and Malcolm Merlyn had planned,” she says, and there it is, a thread of anger beneath her grief. “Mom told everyone. Right before Malcolm almost leveled the Glades. I can’t believe you –”

But she cuts herself off. She’s not here because of what her father had planned to do, she’s here because he’s dead. Because he’s dead and gone and he isn’t coming back. Not like Oliver had.

“I got a job at Verdant, Oliver’s club,” she says, changing topics, and she talks and talks – about Roy and Verdant and Oliver and Queen Consolidated and Moira and prison. About the fact that she now knows what her father was involved in with Malcolm Merlyn and how she and Tommy and Oliver are handling things. She talks about Laurel and Walter, about the Green Arrow. And when she’s done her voice is hoarse and her tears have long since died, but she hasn’t yelled at her father’s grave.

“I’m… I’m really _pissed_ at you actually, Dad,” she finishes, voice cracking as she reaches forward and places a hand on the cool stone. “But I… I wish you were here.”

Oliver came back, but Robert Queen never will. That’s just something Thea’s going to have to live with. To continue to live with.

* * *

It’s clear and sunny that afternoon as Laurel gets off work and drives over to her father’s apartment. In the first few years of her grief, she’d always thought a cliché rainstorm would be more appropriate on these days but today she thinks to herself that Sara would like the sunshine. She was always an active teenager, always moving – she hated the days when the rain forced her to stay inside.

“Your kind of weather, sis,” she whispers to herself as she pulls up next to Quentin, already waiting on the curb. He’s moved his shifts around to be with her tonight. There’s a bouquet of flowers in his hands and a solemn look on his face, but he’s not the mess he once was.

“Hey, honey,” he says as he slips into the passenger’s seat. He leans forward, moving the flowers out of the way as he kisses her cheek.

Laurel leans into it, feeling his stubble against her skin. “Hey, Dad,” she returns softly. Their hands find each other across the middle and squeeze briefly before they separate, her putting the car back into drive, him reaching for his seat belt. They don’t talk on the drive to the cemetery and take silent steps together to Sara’s grave.

Neither of them cry, but Laurel’s throat is tight and Quentin hesitates as she lays the flowers on his baby’s headstone.

“She wouldn’t believe how much has changed,” Laurel says softly, thinking of Tommy, of Oliver, of Thea at Verdant and her dad’s new position as head of the vigilante taskforce.

Quentin lets out a small chuckle, tinged with sorrow. “No,” he says, forcing a smile onto his face. “No, she wouldn’t.”

Together, they mourn.

Neither of them notice the woman watching them from beneath the shadows of a distant tree.

* * *

A bullet flies past his head, loud and deadly, but its original owner won’t get a chance to fire another one. The Green Arrow tosses a flechette into the arm stretched out towards him and, just like that, the fight is over. He’d wandered into a building crawling with members of the Culebra gang and they aren’t happy with the way he’d stopped their drug deal with the Bertinelli family. Now four men lay before him in varying states of unconsciousness and pain. There are another two in the next room over and one in the hallway in between.

The fight was pure and simple and refreshing. He’ll have a bruise from a couple hits to his gut and his leg will smart for a short while after he’d dove out of the way of a rifle shot and landed badly, but otherwise he’s uninjured. The men he’d come for can’t say the same. They were untrained for the most part. Easy pickings. He’s not even breathing that hard.

Oliver picks up the evidence he came for, weighs his options. The SCPD have the grounds to enter the building based on his presence alone and there are some drugs scattered around, some unregistered firearms no doubt, but no way to prove they’re linked to the men now spread across the floors unless one of them is the owner of the house. Of course, a few of these men probably need medical attention. It’d be safer for them, if he called the cops.

He’s not in a particularly forgiving mood at the moment. Let them drag themselves through the emergency room doors.

The Green Arrow turns and walks away.

* * *

* * *

_September 28, 2013, evening:_

For a few days, the Green Arrow is all the people of the Glades can talk about. He’s an elusive figure, no matter how many people he’s saved. To actually see him is rare, to see him out of the shadows he hides in is even less common. There are a couple good photos here and there, but most of them are profiles, shots taken from the back or the sides using security camera footage. Few people have seen him head on.

And yet… he’d walked down the street, simple as that.

True, there’d been few people around, but there _are_ witnesses. More importantly, there’s a photo. One that hasn’t hit the news yet, but has been passed around from phone to phone like some kind of torch, a hopeful beacon, a reminder of the man watching out for them. The darkness of the night and the shadows from his hood make anything more than the outline of his face impossible to detect, but it’s a head-on shot.

He stands tall and strong, unmoving, bow held loosely in his hand, the feathers of his arrows standing straight in the quiver peeking out behind his back. No one else has ever come close to capturing a similar image.

The criminals in the Glades get a bit restless, lay low for a while. Those of them who aren’t criminals (or, well, aren’t career criminals, are only doing what they need to do to survive, not torment others), they talk.

The Green Arrow had walked down the street, in full costume, as casual as can be. Any last naysayers as to his existence evaporate in the face of that evidence. And next to all the rumors of his supposedly superhuman abilities, the act makes him seem nothing more than human. (But then, sometimes Superman looks human too.)

Sin keeps to herself, mostly, but even she’s got her own crowd of fellow homeless kids and others barely getting by. She hears the stories. She’s got the picture on her phone.

“Did you ever meet with him?” she asks Sara, after she shares the tale with her friend.

“Yeah, I did,” Sara says simply.

Sin frowns at the vague answer. “And?” she asks.

Sara throws her a look, and Sin huffs out a laugh.

“Look, you’re great and all, no offense, but everyone wants to know more about the Green Arrow. He kinda saved all our lives,” she says.

Sara’s wonderful, and Sin would give her loyalty to the woman she actually knows over the Green Arrow any day of the week, but the man is still the Glades’ hero.

“Sue me if I’m curious,” she continues.

Sara doesn’t laugh – she never laughs – but something in her eyes lightens a bit. “He’s probably exactly what you’re picturing,” she says.

“So Abercrombie really did know him then?”

Sara nods, but she doesn’t really say anything else. And Sin gets that, knows there’s something dark in her friend’s past (maybe even her present) that the other woman doesn’t want to talk about.

“That where you’ve been these past couple of nights instead?” she asks, rather than continuing her questioning about the Green Arrow.

“Maybe,” Sara allows.

Sin gives her a look, which actually gets Sara to roll her eyes (miracle of miracles, given that her friend is normally always so somber and serious).

“Alright, yes,” Sara says. “He said if I was going to protect his city, I should probably get to know it first.”

Some part of Sin is secretly glad of the way the Green Arrow had referred to Star City as _his_ city. It means he’s protective of them. It means he (hopefully) isn’t just going to up and leave. And he’s letting Sara be a part of that. Sin’s glad at that too – she’d been worried he wouldn’t take kindly to the intrusion.

“Your city too,” she says in response, “if you want it to be.”

Sara gives her an unreadable look. “Maybe it could have been, once,” she says seriously, and Sin knows that the conversation is over. She won’t get anything more out of Sara about the Green Arrow tonight.

But Sin’s still curious, and now she knows someone with a definite source of information. It takes her some time, to track Abercrombie down, but know enough people in the Glades and you can always find someone else. It’s not exactly a small town, but there are networks, if you know where to look.

The Green Arrow’s buddy lives in a crap neighborhood in a crap home, but it’s far from the worst street in the Glades – it’s well lit, at least, and not surrounded by taller buildings – and having a home at all is more than what some people have. People like her. (Of course, he’s a few years older than her. She just turned eighteen last month and hasn’t had much chance yet to take advantage of her new status as a legal adult.)

Someone answers the door after her first knock, but it’s not who Sin was expecting.

She blinks.

“Thea _Queen_?” she asks in disbelief. Man, does Abercrombie lead one strange life.

The man in question stands behind the rich idiot in front of her, looking surprised to see Sin.

“You’ve got a problem with that?” Queen asks, and she’s got some spine for a spoiled brat.

Sin smirks. As if this girl could tangle with her. “Not at all. You hang with some strange crowds, Abercrombie.” She gives him a look, reminding him that she knows about his association with the Green Arrow and wondering if Queen does too.

“Thea, this is Sin,” he says in response, with a tenuous smile to Queen. “She’s friends with Star City’s other vigilante.”

And just like that he turns the tables on her, revealing that Queen _does_ know everything. (Or at least, everything Sin does.) She’d stopped by Abercrombie’s expecting to quiz him about the Green Arrow, but nothing’s going as she’d expected it would.

Queen gives her an interested look. “Really?”

It would be cowardly to back away now, however much Sin is determined not to spill anything about Sara. “Not what I came for,” she says instead, pushing her way into the small home.

Abercrombie (Roy Harper, his name is, she’d learned while tracking him down) takes a startled step backward. Queen just twists, pulling her shoulder back just enough so that Sin can slip in and close the door behind her.

“Then why are you here?” Harper asks. “I know you already passed on my message.”

“Yeah, I passed it on. Wanted to know how one hooks up with the Green Arrow.”

“He saved my life,” Harper says defensively. “How’d you hook up with your pal?”

“She saved my life,” Sin responds, matching his tone.

Off to the side, Queen snorts. “Alright,” she says, half amused, half derisive, “now that we’ve got that out of the way…”

The statement makes Sin realize how ridiculous they must look right now: she and Harper, facing off, ardently prepared to defend their respective vigilantes, refusing to speak about their own but wanting to know about the other’s. Posturing. She’s always hated that – why not just tell it like it is – but on the streets, sometimes it’s necessary.

“This was a mistake,” she says, shaking her head. She’d already known Harper’d been saved by the Green Arrow – the whole city saw the video – why does she think he’s going to tell her any more than that? But when she turns to leave, Queen blocks her path.

“No,” the other woman says. “You want to know more about the Green Arrow, well, we’re curious about your friend too.”

Sin’s eyes flicker back and forth between the two friends (romantic partners?). “I’m not giving away any personal information,” she says plainly. Not that she knows much herself.

Queen grins. “Deal.”

* * *

* * *

_September 30 – October 1, 2013:_

They’re announcing the new Queen Consolidated CEO tomorrow. October first – a new month, a new financial quarter. Oliver’s expected to be there. Despite the fact that they’re still just scraping by when it comes to their stock price, the board has agreed to throw a fairly large party. It’s being hosted in the building, to save on any sort of rent costs, but it’s still not cheap. (All Queen Consolidated employees are invited. Felicity might be there. Oliver doesn’t dwell on the fact.)

Thankfully, it’s not until the evening, so Oliver can stay out as late as he wants the night before, well into the morning, just as he has been for the past week.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Sara cuts in unexpectedly, derailing their previous conversation about Oliver’s position as temporary CEO.

“I’m fine,” Oliver responds plainly, and yeah, perhaps there’s a touch of weariness in his tone, but there’s fond amusement too. He’s not sure he’ll ever stop thinking about how wonderful it is that the woman beside him is still alive.

Sara shakes her head. “I should never have come back.”

He’s not sure why he thought he could hide anything from her either, not even his nightmares. By now, he knows she’d only ignore any argument for staying that he could give voice to.

So he tells her what he’s never told anyone else. “I didn’t, the first time I was free,” he says instead, carefully. It’s not a story anyone else but Amanda Waller knows. The words catch in his throat, a reminder of darker times, but… It’s Sara, and she’s thinking about leaving. Oliver can admit this much, at least.

Sara moves a little faster than usual as her head turns to look at him. “What?”

“ARGUS let me go, eventually,” he says, “but I couldn’t… I couldn’t go home. Couldn’t face my family.”

“You did eventually.”

“Yes.” He looks away from his city’s skyline and meets Sara’s gaze. “You will too.” It’s not a threat but a promise. A surety that one day Sara’s need to help her family (to be there for them) will overcome her desire for them not to see her as she is now.

But Sara shakes her head. “I haven’t been let go,” she says, and Oliver wants so badly to ask her who she’s working with, who still has this hold on her, but he knows better than to press. He’s tired that enough already with no luck. “You have no idea…” she trails off, unwilling to say more.

“Sara, your family will love you regardless.”

The look she gives him is hard. Oliver looks away, dropping the topic. Sirens wail somewhere close by.

“Want to see that that’s all about?” he offers.

She follows his gaze, tracking the flashing lights between the buildings. “What about your team?”

Oliver’s pretty sure she already knows the answer to that, but he speaks anyway. “It’s just you and me now, for the moment.”

“Just like old times,” Sara says with a small smile.

“Just like old times,” Oliver agrees. They race off into the night together, and fight side by side.

* * *

In the aftermath of Oliver’s decision to let Lane go and the revelation of Sara’s identity, their research into the Bertinelli family’s ongoing operations have been somewhat neglected. Oliver no longer has Felicity and Diggle providing him information in the field, but he knows how to do his own research beforehand.

Jasper Honeycutt, the right-hand man of the new leader of the family, is still in jail, and Lance had managed to rustle up a few more arrest warrants on top of that (both for members of the Bertinelli family and the Culebra gang) but they’d never gotten the drugs.

Finally, after weeks of eavesdropping and questioning people – and with some extra information added from Roy – Oliver has a pretty good idea where one of the main headquarters of the family is located. At least, he knows a warehouse owned by a shell company of a shell company of Bertinelli Construction. Though the parent company is no longer in business, what with Frank Bertinelli in Witness Protection and Helena on the run, the shell company doesn’t seem to want for funds.

Oliver takes Sara there after they handle an hour or two of patrolling, waiting until after midnight before they settle in and take stock of the situation.

“You sure you don’t just want to turn this over to the police?” Sara asks. It’s part mockery of the man – faux-hero – Oliver’s become, part genuine question.

“We will,” Oliver promises. “But first, we’re going to show people why it’s a bad idea to join a gang in Star City.”

Together, they do just that.

* * *

By the time the clock strikes five in the morning, the sun starting to lighten the horizon in the distance, Sara finally confronts him about Felicity and Diggle’s absence.

“It’s because of me that you’ve lost your backup,” she says plainly.

It’s not a question, and Oliver doesn’t treat it as one. They’re sitting on the building next to Quentin’s this time, though neither of them is really keeping an eye on his window at the moment.

“They’re alright keeping your secret but not mine?”

Oliver shakes his head. It’s more complicated than that. It always is. “My family knows I’m alive,” he counters. “It’s not your…” he looks over her costume, the blonde wig and the mask still on her head, “-extracurricular activities that they disapprove of.” He pauses, breathes in the fresher air that comes with being so high up and out of the Glades. The city is starting to wake up around them, traffic increasing, lights flickering on. “Besides,” he says, “Tommy knows the whole truth. He comes down to the basement, sometimes.”

“Hence why I’ve avoided it,” Sara responds.

Oliver acknowledges that with a slight tilt of his head. They sit in silence for a few minutes. It’s never awkward with Sara. How could it be, after all that’s happened?

There’s tension between them, of course. They both have so many questions bursting under their skins, questions they’ll never ask, only answer. It’s been barely two weeks, and already Sara knows more about his five years away than any other person in Star City, even discounting the fact that she was there for part of it. She doesn’t know about Russia or the Bratva or Taiana or even much about Hong Kong. But she knows about ARGUS. Knows about Slade and Shado and Fyers. Knows about the submarine and the Amazo. Knows now that he’d had the chance to come home, and he hadn’t taken it.

Oliver’s given all that information freely, in snatches and sentences. Talking about it is still hard but talking about it with Sara doesn’t give him that anxious feeling in his gut, the worry of being judged, the fear of being cast out for what he’s done. The guilt, the pain… those are still there, but Sara understands that. With her, he can force the words out past his lips without feeling too much like he’ll choke on them.

He wants her to understand that she can share her past with him as well, but it seems like her past isn’t quite done with her. It’s still threatening her, here in the present.

He wants her to know he can help with that too.

He says nothing.

The sun peeks its way over the horizon. A light flickers on in the apartment next to Lance’s.

Sara stands. Smiles down at him softly. “Catch you tomorrow?” she asks.

Oliver smiles back. “If you can catch me at all,” he promises.

Sara doesn’t laugh, but her smile stays. That’s good enough for Oliver, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violence here, so if anyone wants me to tag anything just let me know! Chapter 14: Teamwork, will pick up where we left off on October 1. 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts!


	14. Teamwork

_October 1, 2013, night:_

Queen Consolidated sparkles in the early autumn evening. The overhead lights inside are dimmed ever so slightly to accentuate the darkness outside, the city’s skyline in the distance. Looking through the clear glass windows that cover an entire wall, Ed Carlin has to admit that Star City is beautiful, in its own way – though that doesn’t stop him from missing the view of the ocean he’d had from his office back in San Francisco.

He turns from the view outside, shifting to watch the people (his people, now) as they move about the floor. He’s not at the top at the moment, with the board and other higher-level employees, and he wonders how the board is reacting to his absence. But these people, the everyday employees, they’re who he wants to meet at the moment. In their cheap dresses and rented tuxes, savoring the rich champagne they probably only ever get at events like these…

Ed drinks it all in, listening for laughter, watching their smiles. They don’t seem too unhappy, but there’s an undercurrent of tension in the room nevertheless, the consequence of working for a company in trouble and going through a transition of leadership.

A man approaches him at the windows. “Beautiful view, isn’t it?” he asks conversationally.

Ed throws on a charming smile. “Gorgeous,” he agrees, “though I must admit I’ve always preferred having a view of the ocean.” Downtown Star City isn’t close enough for that – not for a good view, at least – and these windows face east anyway. He holds out a hand for the other man to shake. “I’m Ed.”

“Mike,” the man replies, taking the offered hand with a grin. “I was never much of a beach-goer myself, but I’ve always loved the big cities.”

Mike is wearing a rented tux uncomfortably, tie askew, shoes slightly scuffed. He’s carrying a glass of the same champagne that sparkles in everyone else’s hands, throwing the light around beautifully, underscoring the subtle golden banners placed strategically throughout the building – including above the windows they now stand by. His grin is wide and friendly, his eyes bright with laugh lines.

“There’s something about city life that I couldn’t live without,” Ed agrees easily.

Mike grins and nods. “Haven’t seen you around here before,” he mentions casually.

He doesn’t seem to be fishing for information, just making conversation. Comfortable in his role at the company then. It’s good to see.

“I’m new, just left my old job in San Francisco,” Ed answers truthfully. He glances around at the others on the same floor, chatting casually. There’s tension, yes, worry about the upcoming transition, but none of the faux sincerity and practiced smiles the higher-ups in every company always seem to have. These are just people, taking advantage of their employer’s splurging to have a bit of fun. “What about you, like it here?”

Mike shrugs. “You probably didn’t pick a great time to join,” he admits honestly, and Ed’s estimation of the man rises another notch. He makes a mental note to look Mike up later. “Steele was a good CEO, but let’s just say I’m glad someone’s coming in from the outside to take over.”

No mention of the brief months Moira Queen had been at the head of the company. Ed glosses over it. Now’s not the time to press.

“Heard anything about the new boss?”

“He’s from Wayne Enterprises but not Gotham,” Mike says, noncommittally, shrugging again. “So who really knows?”

Ed hums lightly in agreement, gaze surveying the room again. “What department do you work in again?” he asks, frowning ever so slightly.

Mike throws him an odd look. “Payroll,” he says, “everyone here’s from the payroll department.”

Ed puts on a grin, light and easy, and chuckles softly. “That’s what I thought,” he says, infusing a hint of relief, a hint of exasperation into his tone. “I’m on the wrong floor.” He plays it off as a joke – look at the new guy, getting lost already – and Mike laughs too.

“Need help finding your way?”

“Nah,” Ed turns him down. “I’m sure I’ll learn how to navigate this place eventually. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too,” Mike says, and they nod as they separate.

There aren’t really designated floors, per se – employees are free to wander where they wish for this event – but it’s a large company, and not everyone can fit in one place. Besides, most people’s friends and acquaintances are in the same departments as them, and so most people don’t wander. Ed does.

He flits from floor to floor, taking in the building and the people equally. It’s not his first time doing so (he wouldn’t have said yes to the job without knowing what he was getting into first), but nobody’s recognized him yet, and that’s an advantage he’d never had on his guided tours. Sometimes he stops to chat, gets a feel for how people feel about their employer, about their city. (Star City’s got its own superhero, and given his penchant for targeting the rich, there’s plenty of talk about the Green Arrow in these halls. He hears a few comments wondering if he himself (if their new boss) would make the Green Arrow’s so-called hit list. He smiles to himself and hopes not.) Sometimes, he just passes through a crowd, observing but unspeaking.

By the time the party is well under way, he finally makes it to the top floor, where the board and the heads of departments and the current CEO are supposed to be. (If Queen shows. The man’s reputation is not the best, though he seems to be trying in the wake of his mother’s crimes.) The floor’s supposed to be open to all – so-called “lesser employees” included – but a woman near the elevator still throws Ed a scornful look at his late appearance as the doors opens. He makes a mental note to look for her picture among his files; he really hopes she’s not part of the HR department. (He hasn’t memorized _quite_ everyone just yet, and there are more positions than just his that are in flux at the moment.)

Here though, most of the people know who he is. There isn’t much chance or opportunity to wander unnoticed. Ed gets drawn into conversation after conversation that he couldn’t back out of even if he’d wanted to, and he listens closely to what everyone is saying – and what they aren’t saying. Even Queen is there, though from what Ed is hearing he’d shown up late, and he slowly makes the way towards the man whose position he’s taking.

He’s talked to Queen before, of course – the man had even joined in on a couple of his interviews – but never really one on one, never really loose and relaxed like this. Queen had always seemed a bit out of his depth, but like he genuinely wanted his family’s company to survive. He’s got a fundraiser for the utility companies of Star City in about ten days that Ed’s been invited to, which speaks to his ability to care about other people (but could also just be a clever marketing ploy to give the Queens – and thus Queen Consolidated – good press).

Ed wants to know what the young man is like when he’s about to pass on all of his responsibilities to someone else, and no longer has to work for his money. By the time he gets to him, Queen looks a little drunk – speaking a little too loudly, stumbling a bit – but it’s possible that Ed only notices because he’s looking for it.

“Ed!” the young billionaire greets him enthusiastically. “How’re you liking your new company?”

It’s a bit… detached, for someone who’d seemed to care about the employees, but then, Ed hasn’t spent enough time with Queen yet to really get a proper measure of the other man.

He smiles politely in response, reminded of his own enthusiasm when he’d heard the news that they’d given him the position. “Mr. Queen,” he starts.

Queen shakes his head. “How many times –”

“Oliver,” Ed corrects himself. “I appreciate the welcome, but Queen Consolidated isn’t actually _mine_ yet.” And he’s just the new CEO. Queen will still hold the majority of the shares.

Queen waves a hand carelessly through the air. “It’s all but official,” he contradicts, “just need to wait for the paperwork to go through.”

Ed keeps his expression polite, offering a small smile. “I suppose so, yes,” he agrees, unable to stop his own thrill of pleasure at the thought. He _is_ looking forward to this job, to the chance to make a difference for the company. Wayne Enterprises had been a great place to work, but it’d been a stable company, and the San Francisco branch relatively small, compared to Gotham. Ed’s looking forward to the challenge Queen Consolidated presents. “About that though,” he continues. “I’d like to offer you a place with the company, if you want to stay on as more than an honorary board member. Obviously, we’d find a position that fit your skill set –”

Queen laughs quietly, interrupting him. As the younger man grins down at him, Ed can’t help but think to himself, _yeah, he’s a bit drunk_. Not overtly so but…

“I knew you’d be a good fit,” Queen says, sounding pleased. “But there’s no need to pander to the owner – trust me, a nine to five’s not what I’m looking for.”

Ed hesitates, but decides not to press, especially not when Queen snags a glass from a passing waiter. He can understand now, why the man has the reputation he does. He’s not rude or impolite, but he’s… definitely tipsy and carefree. And Ed’s not his father. Queen is an adult; he can make his own choices.

He nods politely at the other man. “Alright then,” he agrees, “I’ll let you get back to your party.” And with one final word of farewell and good luck from the Queen scion, Ed manages to extract himself from the man’s presence and returns to his rounds, getting a feel for the employees that _are_ his responsibility. His new team.

* * *

* * *

_October 3, 2013, late evening:_

Oliver’s team is gone. Felicity and Diggle haven’t been to the foundry in almost two weeks now. But that doesn’t mean he’s completely alone – not the way he’d been when he’d started his crusade. Detective Lance still takes his calls. Roy still feeds him information. Sara works with him some nights, fighting side by side or else giving him a new target to go after. And Superman…

The last time Oliver had seen – or talked with – Superman had been back in early August. Almost two months ago. But that – as far as Oliver knows – is not because of any disagreement between the two of them. Their meetings have always been sporadic and they both have their own duties to attend to. Oliver’s seen the superhero in the news quite a few times – September alone had had two earthquakes in Pakistan, two tropical storms he’d been seen at, two tornados in Japan, another in Brazil, and a few small ones in the United States he’d stopped entirely. He’d put out or helped control a couple fires in California and Australia both, and he’d helped manage the damage from the two hurricanes that had hit Mexico.

And that’s just the natural disasters, on top of all the time he spends fighting crime, stopping runaway trains and bank robbers and schemes that Lex Luthor ardently denies he had any part of, plus all the time Superman spends just helping people.

So when Superman calls after sunset in early October, Oliver ignores any apologies Superman gives for the time gap between their last conversation and now. It’s not like he’s attempted to make contact anyway. (Some part of him idly wonders if he ever would, if he was in Metropolis for some reason.)

_“I know it’s been a while –”_ Superman starts to say.

“I understand what it means to be busy,” Oliver cuts him off. He thinks about saying _‘and we’re not friends anyway’_ but he knows Superman would take that entirely the wrong way. He almost says it anyway, remembering Diggle and Felicity leaving him, knowing it’s only a matter of time before Superman becomes fully aware of Oliver’s violent nature, whether or not he’s stopped killing, and moves to stop him again, without bothering with threats this time. But Oliver holds his tongue. It may be inevitable, but unlike with Felicity and Diggle Oliver can’t be certain that Superman won’t try to end his crusade. Just cutting ties probably wouldn’t be enough for the brightly clad hero. There’s no need for him to hasten such a situation along. He holds his tongue.

_“Are you busy at the moment?”_ Superman responds.

There are too many ways to answer that question. Oliver’s always doing something, after all, when he’s in costume. But he knows what Superman is really asking.

“No,” he responds shortly.

_“Mind if I stop by our usual warehouse?”_ Superman asks. _“I don’t want to get too rusty.”_

Two months is far too long to go without practicing if he intends to gain any proficiency in hand-to-hand combat, but Oliver decides not to mention that. His own mind is too caught up on the phrase “our usual warehouse”.

It’s still empty, of course, that isn’t the problem, but the fact that Superman’s come to associate it with their training together…

_What do I think I’m doing, trying to train him_? Oliver wonders to himself, for probably the thousandth time. He’s not a good mentor. He’s not a good _person_. But Superman keeps asking him for help anyway. He doesn’t understand why.

Except for the fact that there’s probably absolutely no one else that Superman can ask. Apparently, that’s enough for them to maintain their tenuous relationship, for however much longer it lasts.

“Give me a half hour,” Oliver says, so he can wrap up what he’s doing and make his way there. He hangs up without waiting on Superman’s reply, and then curses himself for doing so as soon as he’s done. Superman isn’t Lance. Angering him leads to a hundred percent certainty of being caught, if Superman realizes he’s not actually the hero he’s called him before.

Too late now. He’ll just have to hope that this instance of rudeness isn’t the catalyst that sparks the flame.

* * *

Oliver reaches the warehouse a full fifteen minutes after he hangs up on the hero. He doesn’t consider it to be a waste of time; he sweeps the warehouse instead, top to bottom, side to side. There’s not much in the building for anything to hide behind, or be placed under, but he scours the walls, climbs the rafters and looks over the ceiling.

He’s not sure if it’s distrust in Superman that has him looking for evidence of others in the structure, distrust in people in general, or just his paranoia. Likely, it’s all three, if the latter two a bit more than the former. Superman wouldn’t need to plant bugs or spy covertly to find out who the Green Arrow is. He’s been led through the backdoor of Verdant. He’s got enhanced hearing and enhanced vision and speed that lets him blur out of view.

But that doesn’t mean no one has spotted Superman coming into and out of the warehouse, and it doesn’t mean that no homeless individuals might have taken up residence since the last time Oliver had used the building, and it doesn’t mean that someone like ARGUS, or the DEO (since it’s Superman) might be keeping tabs on either one of them.

So Oliver takes his extra time to indulge his paranoia, probably triggered by Superman’s casual statement about their ‘usual warehouse’ – patterns can get you killed.

There’s nothing to find, but he hadn’t expected there to be anything, really. He’d just needed something to do. He double checks his arrows, his flechettes, the knife on his belt, and then Superman’s there, walking in through the same side door they’ve used every time so far.

Oliver nods cordially at him, if shortly. “Superman.”

Superman grins. “Green Arrow,” he returns. “Good to see you.”

Oliver feels like he should return the comment, if only to stay on the hero’s good side, but he’s not in a talkative mood. He doesn’t know this man, and never has, whatever he’s thought in the past.

Still, he knows he can’t afford to distance himself too much from the other man.

“Show me what you remember,” he orders, attempting to keep some of his usual gruffness out of his voice.

If Superman takes offense, he doesn’t show it, seemingly eager to learn. Oliver will say this for the man at least: he handles criticism pretty well.

As they go through what Oliver’s already taught the man, refreshing Superman’s memory (and muscle memory), the evening somehow becomes a distraction. Maybe he doesn’t know Superman, but Superman doesn’t know him either, not really. He doesn’t know about Sara – her death, or her return, or her refusal to tell her family she’s alive. He doesn’t know that Oliver’s fighting with Felicity and Digg. He doesn’t know that Oliver’s nightmares have increased in frequency and horror both lately. He doesn’t know that Oliver’s been close to losing track of the days of the week again, like he had too many times during his time away.

All he knows is that Oliver – the Green Arrow – knows how to fight, and that he’s willing to teach him.

And for two hours or so, that all Oliver knows too. This warehouse… Felicity and Digg might know about it, technically, but it’s not really part of either of his two lives, Oliver Queen or the Arrow of Star City. In here, he truly is the _Green_ Arrow, because that’s who Superman believes him to be.

In here, he’s actually doing good, because he knows Superman is a hundred times better than he’ll ever be and can save a hundred thousand more lives than Oliver could ever dream of. 

For two hours, Oliver forgets his own troubles for once.

* * *

* * *

_October 4, 2013, lunch time:_

Practicing law is nothing like what people seem to think it is. Of course, most people get their information from movies and TV shows. The law is rarely quick, and only then when money is involved. Suing someone isn’t easy either, especially when that someone is a renowned doctor at one of Star City’s best hospitals without a single mark on his record, and he spends his free time volunteering at a local clinic in one of Star City’s poorest neighborhoods.

Laurel is going to need evidence, and irrefutable evidence at that, before they can even start the process. Several weeks on, in between juggling another case of her own, partnering with Jo for another, and assisting on two of Mark’s and one of Cindy’s, Laurel’s found absolutely nothing. Dr. Anderson won’t even talk to her. The hospital staff keeping turning her away. The clinic where he volunteers during his free time had been quick to end the conversation and hang up the phone when she’d said she was a lawyer.

Others might have given up at this point and, indeed, her coworkers and bosses have been asking why she hasn’t. She can’t exactly tell them what sparked her interest in the case in the first place. But Jo knows, so she’s been backing her up, and that’s enough for CNRI to let her keep working on the case in the background, so long as it doesn’t interfere too much with her other work. But she needs evidence soon, before they tell her to drop it entirely.

Phone calls have gotten her nowhere, emails have gotten her nowhere, and her bosses want her to start focusing on other cases. Which is why she heads to Star City General on her lunch hour instead of during work hours, trying to schedule an appointment with Dr. Anderson.

“I’m here as a representative of the wife of one of his previous patients,” Laurel says firmly, trying not to let too much of the irritation she feels enter her tone. The receptionist in front of her isn’t to blame for anything, even if she is a part of the corrupt system Laurel – and Jo and the Arrow – is working to dismantle. “I have a right to speak with Dr. Anderson on her behalf.”

“Dr. Anderson is a busy man,” the receptionist repeats for what must be the fifth time already. She looks old enough to be Laurel’s mother and it’s clear that she’s been working at the hospital for most of, if not all of, her adult life. She is utterly unphased by the fact that a lawyer is badgering her for information and has not budged so much as a millimeter in the ten minutes Laurel has been arguing with her. Her expression says she’s seen and done it all and nothing Laurel says will sway her. She isn’t even irritated so much as she is simply unimpressed. “If you’d like to schedule an appointment –”

Laurel cuts her off before she can say – for the third time – that the soonest she can see the man is early next year, possibly not until February or even March. She knows this game. If she schedules an appointment this far in advance there will no doubt be a last-minute medical emergency that prevents Anderson from attending and pushes back their appointment time by another month or two. And she doesn’t much feel like going through the hospital lawyers, though she keeps that option in the back of her mind as a last resort, if absolutely nothing else works.

“That won’t be necessary,” she says briskly, “thank you for your time.” She walks away before the woman can respond. _Not her fault_ , Laurel tries to remind herself. It only partially works.

Jo know immediately what happened from the look on Laurel’s face the second she walks through the door with a take-out bag from Panera in hand. She doesn’t ask “Any luck?” or “Didn’t go well?” Instead, her face falls for barely a fraction of a second before determination enters her eyes.

“What next?” she asks, voice strong, and Laurel loves her for it.

But she’s still a little exhausted by the confrontation, and she’s still annoyed and irritated at her difficulties in even _talking_ to anyone about the case, so her reply is a bit sharper than she’d like it to be.

“Right now,” she replies, setting the paper bag down on her desk, “I eat lunch. Later…”

“The clinic?”

“The clinic.” It’s the only avenue left to get a meeting with Anderson that Laurel hasn’t tried yet. Well, that and talking to the hospital lawyers, but Laurel _really_ doesn’t want to talk to the hospital lawyers – _especially_ without evidence. If even the clinic doesn’t work, Laurel will have to settle for talking to Anderson’s associates next, anyone who’s worked with him in the past or the present. It’s something she would have done anyway, eventually, but she doesn’t want hearsay from random nurses to be her only basis for a case. She wants to hear from Anderson personally.

The way things are going, it doesn’t look like she will.

“I can come with you if you’re willing to wait until next weekend,” Jo volunteers, pulling her chair up to Laurel’s desk and snagging a chip from the now-opened bag she hasn’t eaten from yet.

Laurel gives her a look. Jo agrees with what they’re doing in regard to the List, and Laurel hasn’t heard her say a bad word against the Arrow since the vigilante had solved her brother’s murder, but she still thinks the man – and anything to do with him – is dangerous.

She’s not wrong, it’s just that she usually leaves the more dangerous things to Laurel.

“What?” Jo asks defensively, leaning back.

Just this once, Laurel decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She doesn’t want to push Jo on this. “Thanks,” she says instead, and pushes the bag of chips entirely in her best friend’s direction. “We can do a girl’s night out, tomorrow, if you want.” It’s the weekend, after all, and even though she knows Jo is busy during the day (hence why she’d suggested _next_ weekend to visit the clinic) her friend should be free in the evening.

Jo grins. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?” she agrees.

She’s right on that too. Every time they’ve spent hanging out outside of work these days has found the two of them holed up in one of their two apartments, going through the List as much as they can.

Impulsively, Laurel almost considers inviting Thea – the other woman could use some girl time too she knows – but she holds her tongue. Her friendship with Jo first, after all the extra work she’s given her, and then she can think about introducing the two women.

“It’ll be fun,” she says instead. “But right now…”

Jo laughs, snagging the bag of chips off the desk entirely as she stands. “Right. Back to work we go.” And she takes a seat properly at her own desk, digging into her files once more.

* * *

* * *

_October 4, 2013, evening:_

Roy’s life has been really weird lately. Almost none of it is what he’d pictured it would be even six months ago, on those rare moments when he’d been thinking that far into the future. Not only does he now have a girlfriend, but that girlfriend is Thea Queen, one of the richest in Star City, if not at the very top. For the past two months he’s been working with ( _for_ , a bitter part of him can’t help but point out) the Green Arrow, Star City’s own vigilante. For the past two weeks, he and Thea have somewhat befriended Sin (no last name yet), who is friends with Star City’s newest vigilante.

And now he’s about to get a job at a posh night club.

Maybe.

“C’mon, Roy,” Thea almost pleads (though it’s more exasperated than desperate), “the hours will be more reliable, the pay will be more reliable, and it’s not charity. With Oliver and Tommy stepping back Verdant really does need to hire an extra hand or two.”

Thea might genuinely believe that it’s not charity, but Roy knows perfectly well that he would never be offered the job (let alone get it) if she wasn’t his girlfriend. If that’s not charity, then he doesn’t know what is. Thea is the one with the car; when Roy drives, he tends to borrow his neighbor’s little-used pickup. Thea is the one who never has a problem paying for lunch or dinner or coffee; Roy contributes as much as he can, and probably more than he should sometimes, but less than he wants to.

He knows money doesn’t matter, shouldn’t matter, but that’s easier to say when you have it. When you don’t have to think about where your next meal is coming from or if you’ll have to choose between the electric and the gas bills. There’d been a reason Roy had been a thief, even if he’s given that up since dating Thea. Even a hundred bucks snatched from a stranger’s wallet had been a help. But that’s over now, and Roy can’t help but think that there’s absolutely no reason for Thea to want to date him. What does he bring to the table?

His charming personality?

Roy _knows_ that that’s not what Thea thinks – she’s said before that she loves how much he wants to help people. He knows that Thea doesn’t care about his house or how much money is in his wallet, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking what he does.

And now she wants to give him a job. Part of Roy wants to take it, because she’s right of course: reliable pay and a reliable schedule is something he’s only dreamed of having. But most of Roy doesn’t want to take it, because it’s a handout, because he hasn’t earned it, because… because…

Roy grits his teeth, turns away from Thea.

A knock on the door distracts them both and as Roy moves to answer it Thea throws him a look that means the conversation isn’t over. Roy ignores it as best he can.

It’s Sin at the door, the third time she’s been to Roy’s house. (From what Roy understands, though he hasn’t yet and never will say anything, Sin is kinda between houses at the moment, and there’s no chance in hell that she would go to Queen Manor. Somehow, that means Roy’s place has become the middle ground.)

“Hey,” he says easily, moving aside to let her in. There’s always a level of wariness, between people in the Glades, because desperate people do desperate things, but Roy trusts this young woman well enough, for now at least. Once she’d gotten past her instinctive dislike of all things rich (namely: Thea), they’d spent a couple hours that first night just talking about Star City’s vigilantes. The second time she’d popped by Thea hadn’t been there, and she’d stayed for less than an hour. Despite Sin not seeming to like the other woman, Thea gets things done and doesn’t take no for an answer. ( _Spoiled_ , part of Roy whispers, but really, he thinks that’s mostly just Thea being herself.) It had been less awkward with the three of them.

“Hey yourself,” Sin returns, walking into his place like she lives there. (Defensive body language, Roy knows. Act like you own the place and fewer people will question why you’re there.) “I see the princess decided to lower herself to our level again.”

It’s another dig at the divide between Roy and Thea, and Thea takes it as calmly as she has the last few. Maybe _calm_ isn’t the right word – it’s an angry sort of stillness, cool calculation behind a watchful façade – but he can’t think of another phrase or emotion to describe it. All he knows is that he’s not looking forward to the moment when Sin pushes a bit more than Thea can take. However fierce and independent the other woman is, Roy’d put his money on Thea.

He steps forward between them as Thea stiffens. “What’s up?” he asks, tossing her one of the still wrapped fast-food burgers from the table (supposed to be his second, but whatever; Roy knows better than to offer Sin handouts, and he doesn’t usually have food to spare, but Thea had brought these with her so…).

Sin catches the burger, frowns at it, then tucks it into her jacket pocket. She’s prideful, but not so stupid as to turn down free food. “I’m not staying long,” she says, tone angry, or perhaps embarrassed. “Just wanted to know if you’d heard anything.”

“About what?” Roy asks. He knows she means related to the Green Arrow, but there’s still a lot he’s heard lately, now that he’s spent the past few months keeping his ears to the ground. She’s going to need to be more specific if she wants something from him.

“I… my friend…” Sin hesitates. “She hasn’t exactly said, but… I uh, I think she’s thinking about leaving.”

The relationship Sin has with the unnamed female vigilante is different than the one Roy has with the Green Arrow. They’d both been saved, but Sin had had nowhere to go back to, and her friend had taken her under her wing. It had taken Roy months before he had met the Green Arrow again. (Not that he’s complaining. It means more to him than he can express that the hero had been the one to seek _him_ out.) From what Roy has heard so far, Sin depends a lot more on her vigilante than he does with his.

These thoughts are why Roy picks out the uncertainty in Sin’s voice, the insecurity and the need for reassurance. Sin wants to know that her vigilante isn’t leaving, but that’s not something he can tell her.

“I haven’t heard anything,” he says honestly. “We mainly only talk when I call.”

Sin looks away, jaw tight, hands clenching at her sides.

“But,” Roy continues, before she decides to leave, “if that was what she decided, I’m pretty sure you’d be the first to know.”

The tension in Sin’s body doesn’t magically evaporate at Roy’s words, but she meets his gaze again and nods firmly, both thanks and acknowledgment. She hovers for a moment longer, but then, without bothering to spare another glance at Thea, she shows herself out. Roy can’t exactly blame her for not wanting to stick around after that show of vulnerability – he wouldn’t have. He watches Sin go for a moment, then retakes his seat at the table and meets Thea’s gaze hesitantly.

He knows the two women don’t have the best of relationships. (Of course, they barely know each other. _Roy_ barely knows Sin.)

Thea looks torn – frustrated and admiring somehow at the same time.

“What?” Roy asks defensively.

Thea shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says. “Just… you handled that really well.” Her tone makes it clear she still doesn’t like Sin, and that the undercurrent of admiration in her words is for him.

Roy still doesn’t know how to react whenever Thea praises him, so he does what he usually does and shrugs it off, quickly changing the topic. Thea just rolls her eyes and goes with it, at least for a few minutes. When a pause occurs in the conversation that follows, she takes advantage of it.

“I gotta head out,” she says, “but I’m going into Verdant tomorrow night. Be there.”

She doesn’t say _or else_. (Thea never needs to; her tone is always enough.)

Roy just nods mutely, not committing to anything, shows her to the door, and gladly accepts her goodbye kiss. When the door closes behind her, he’s at a loss for what to do next.

* * *

* * *

_October 4, 2013, night:_

As October begins, fall settles in properly in Star City, the nights becoming chilly and brisk. Oliver’s typical pattern on the streets these days involves constant movement, so it doesn’t both him much. Even when he does stay still, his five years away have taught him how to ignore the cold when needed. His suit isn’t warm, exactly, but it is snug and covers all his extremities and that is more than what he’d had when he’d gotten used to the idea of spending cold nights outdoors.

He barely notices the changing temperatures. He’s starting to lose track of the days of the week again. Without Felicity and Diggle in the foundry with him, Oliver doesn’t really spend time with anyone who holds regular working hours – and there’s no one to remind him what night of the week it is. There’s Tommy, but he can and does come into Verdant whenever he wants, especially now that he’s focusing on his mother’s clinic. There’s Lance, but Oliver doesn’t seem him that often anyway, and as the head of the vigilante task force he works plenty of overtime, and sometimes even gets called in on his days off.

Thea’s preparing for a job at Verdant, but that’s not exactly going to be a nine-to-five either, and he and Laurel never hang out these days without Tommy present. (And with Tommy and Oliver both as busy as they are these days, that hasn’t been a frequent occurrence lately.)

Sara, of course, couldn’t care less about keeping to a schedule.

Oddly enough, it’s Walter who’s been keeping Oliver grounded, and Walter’s presence that reminds Oliver of the days of the week and the passage of time. It’s Walter who has started to pick Thea up for lunch every Saturday afternoon as she pesters him for business advice. (She’s throwing herself into the prospect of a management position at Verdant with far more effort than Oliver had expected from her.) It’s Walter who Oliver texts periodically with updates on Queen Consolidated and questions about how to best proceed. And it’s Walter with whom he shares the quiet understanding of what it means to be isolated from everyone you love, unable to return home.

Walter is perhaps the only person in his life who doesn’t know about the Green Arrow but still understands, at least partially – at least, more than others – what had happened to him. (Walter and perhaps Lance, but Oliver doesn’t count Quentin Lance as being a part of Oliver Queen’s life.) Thea, Laurel, and his mom have all seen his scars, and they’re aware, technically speaking, that he had a hard time of it on the island, but they don’t understand what that means, not the way Walter does. And Tommy and Diggle and Felicity – whatever their understanding of his past – they’ve seen what the island turned him into.

Walter, who keeps his back to the walls more often than not. Walter, who, though he doesn’t seem to be aware of it, doesn’t like to be by himself if he’s not somewhere familiar or crowded (harder to be kidnapped when people are watching, though Oliver knows it can be done). Walter who still relishes every dish he gets to eat and every shower he gets to take.

Walter Steele is the only reason that Oliver knows today is Friday, not that it matters much to him otherwise. Weekend nights are busier on the streets, but then, so are nights when the Rockets or the Thunder are playing, or there’s a concert in one of Star City’s many halls or plazas, depending on the season. These days Oliver arrives to a dark basement, suits up, and then hits the street without so much as a helpful voice in his ear. He’s even left his earpiece in his pocket a few times, since there’s no one for him to communicate with.

His nightmares are more frequent and he sleeps less and not once does he actually consider going back on his decision.

Sara is worth it. Knowing she’s alive, having her back in his life – it’s all worth it. Oliver refuses to alienate her, and if that means he loses the rest of his team then so be it. (Diggle has shown up at a few public events that still merit the appearance of a bodyguard, and he’s still technically employed by Oliver, but otherwise Oliver hasn’t seen neither him nor Felicity.)

Oliver turns his face away from the cool fall breeze, leaving his thoughts behind him as he listens to his city. It’s almost three in the morning and heavy clouds fill the sky above him, blocking out the few stars. From the scent on the wind the clouds are ready to unload a torrential downpour on Star City at any moment, but they haven’t yet. He’s scoping out another person from the List at the moment, implementing a new plan. (A new plan that might require Felicity’s technical expertise, so more advanced than his own, but Oliver doesn’t dwell on that fact right now. It’s a distraction he doesn’t need.)

Attacking each person on the List would take a very long time, and though Oliver doesn’t doubt in his abilities, the more men he goes up against the higher the chances are that he’ll get hurt, or caught. He doesn’t need to intimidate everyone into giving back through brute force, even if that’s what he’s most familiar with. There are other ways.

Namely, the bugs in Oliver’s pocket. He’s planted a few already in two other members of the List’s homes; the woman’s apartment in front of him would make three. It’s hours of audio to go through, but Oliver’s got nothing but time on his hands.

The street below is quiet, the apartment he’s watching even more so. There are no lights on, and Oliver knows the resident isn’t home. Beatrice Turner is in the Bahama’s for a week, spending money she’s earned through lies and scams. Oliver moves to jump the gap between the building he’s on and his target, but movement out of the corner of his eye stops him. He pauses and holds himself in place.

“There you are,” says a quiet voice in his ear.

“Sara,” Oliver acknowledges with a small grin. Only she could get so close before he spotted her movements. He doesn’t ask how she found him – there’s no need. Sometimes their paths cross these nights, sometimes they don’t. It’s enough knowing she’s still alive.

“Another one percenter?” Sara asks, gaze sweeping across the windows Oliver was just staring through. These days her emotional displays are few and far between (much like him, he supposes), but he picks up a hint of disdain in her tone. Oliver can tell instantly it’s not just distaste for Turner – Sara’s itching for a fight.

Well, he supposes he is too.

“Tell you what,” he says, almost playfully. “You help me plant these bugs and I’ll show you a real fight.”

Sara flashes a wicked grin at him, a reminder of who she used to be (and who Oliver hopes she’ll be again). “It’s a date,” she says, then takes off at a run and leaps the gap easily before he can respond.

Oliver follows with a grin. Together they make their way down the fire escape and pry open the window to the apartment next door to Turner’s. Turner’s got extra security on her own windows, and the building’s security is too good to breach on the ground floor, but Oliver should be able to pick the simple lock on Turner’s front door, with access to the hallway. (She trusts too much in the, admittedly very good, building security.)

“After you,” Sara says, once they’re both standing by Turner’s neighbor’s front door. Her tone has become serious again, lacking any emotion but determination.

Oliver understands that. This is a mission, of sorts, and there’s no room for distraction during a mission. Within two minutes he and Sara stand in Turner’s apartment, the door locked again behind them. Oliver clicks on a small flashlight, careful to point the light away from the windows. There’s unlikely to be anyone looking inside – they’re on the top floor, after all – but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious.

When Sara wordlessly stretches out a hand, Oliver places two of his four bugs into her palm, meets her gaze, and nods once. They separate without needing to coordinate. Oliver places one in the bedroom, one in Turner’s office. Sara, he knows, will place one in the main room and the other in the hall between the kitchen and the front door. Together they move quickly and quietly and in less than ten minutes they’re on the roof opposite again, leaving no signs that anyone had ever entered Turner’s apartment.

Sara doesn’t regain her moderately playful tone from before, but Oliver can see the tightly coiled tension in her muscles and the stiffness in the way she walks. He remembers what he had been like, the first time he’d gotten free from ARGUS. He’d wanted nothing more than fight after fight, a chance to let loose the anger and self-hatred that had consumed him until he’d had a purpose again.

While he wants to give Sara that purpose, he also knows that a fight can’t hurt.

“My bike’s this way,” he says shortly, gesturing with his head. There’s really no need for either of them to say any more. He leads, Sara follows at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short break and Chapter 15: Left Behind, should be posted October 5th.


	15. Left Behind

_October 5, 2013, early morning:_

Roy’s most recent lead to his hero ends up being as solid as all his others have been. Oliver and Sara watch as a truck pulls up in front of the abandoned theater they’re watching, barely an hour after they’d arrived and gotten into position. Dawn is coming, the sky lightening above them and soft breezes tugging at their clothes, but neither of them really have anywhere to be and there’s still time before the light becomes more of a hinderance than a help. Both of them are perfectly capable of conducting surveillance for much longer than an hour. They’d passed the time in silence easily, on separate roofs – Oliver watching the front, Sara the back.

With the coming of the truck though they’ve managed to regroup, Oliver carefully making his way to Sara’s hiding spot just as two men come out of the building to greet the delivery. She throws him a look, harsh and ready.

“It would be safer to move before they unload,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know that. With the truck out in the open, the alley it sits in plenty wide enough to allow people to pass on both sides freely; there’s a lot of room for the criminals to run. But if they wait until the criminals enter the building he and Sara would be at a disadvantage. They don’t know the territory and haven’t had the chance to scope out the inside of the structure yet.

“While they’re unloading,” Oliver counters easily. Let them be distracted, with one or two in the back of the truck when he and Sara strike. These men have started to bring military grade weapons into the Glades, per Roy’s intel – Oliver doesn’t intend to make a single move that won’t end with these men behind bars.

Sara’s still itching for a fight, but she continues to follow his lead for now. They both scope out the area more clearly, then exchange glances. It’s been almost a month since Oliver and Sara have started fighting side by side again and they’ve been needing to speak less and less as time has elapsed. It’s not even so much a matter of having spent a large amount of time with each other, they just _know_ each other in a way Oliver’s not sure he’s every really known anyone else. (He’d never had enough time, with Slade and Shado.)

Fighting with Sara feels right.

He jerks his head to one side. She nods. They separate, positioning themselves so that the criminals will be pinned between the alley walls to the sides of them, Oliver behind them, and Sara in front of the truck. It takes Oliver a matter of minutes to get off the roof and into position and by then the two drivers have gathered near the back of the truck with the two men who’d exited the building earlier. A fifth wanders over to meet them, moving slow and lazy, gaze high and mighty. Oliver immediately begs him as the man in charge, or at least the highest-ranking member of the small group.

As one of the drivers opens the back of the truck and hops inside, Oliver see Sara sneaking around the side of the truck opposite the theater the men have been using as a base, where no one is standing. He nocks an arrow, following her movements out of the corner of his eye as he remains half-focused on the threat in front of him, then lets loose at the appropriate moment. His arrow flies straight and true, right through the arm of the man in charge. He lets out a scream of pain and surprise, staggering backward. His men curse and scramble.

One of them steps backward straight into Sara’s waiting arms. She has him in a chokehold before he can react and on the ground before any of the others draw their guns. Oliver leaps over the box he’d been hunkered behind, throws a flechette into the shin of another man, and sprints into the fight. He knocks someone backward with his bow, then leaps into the back of the truck to stop the man inside from pulling a gun on Sara. With one punch he throws the man to the floor, down but not out, then grabs the rope hanging from the door as he jumps out. Latching it again takes another man out of the fight, but the commotion has drawn attention from those still inside.

Quick and fluid punches flow through him as Oliver ducks and weaves and knocks guns out of outstretched hands while Sara takes out a third thug. Three down from her, one locked in the trunk by him, and the leader hanging back with an arrow in his arm makes five, but two more have joined them. Oliver takes one of them out, the other runs, and when Oliver turns again the leader is also gone. He won’t get far as he is – he’ll need a proper hospital to see to the wound in his arm.

Sara doesn’t do anything so expressive as to grin at him, but there’s triumph in her eyes and less tension in her body. “You got this?” she asks, sweeping her gaze over the unconscious men on the ground when she knows perfectly well that Oliver’s taken to carrying around a healthy number of zip ties.

He nods, knowing that she intends to look around inside. “Be careful,” he cautions, though there’s really no need for that either. She knows what she’s doing and her careful stealth – and the element of fear – should make up for her not knowing the territory. (There’s probably no one left inside anymore anyway.)

Oliver zip ties all the men on the ground first, then opens the back of the truck. He has to duck a gunshot from the man inside, but the ensuing fight isn’t long. None of the men he’d faced tonight had had training of any sort. The young man joins his cohorts on the ground and Oliver sends a text with the address to the police.

By now the SCPD is well aware that the Green Arrow sends in tips – the taskforce has an entirely separate phone from the one he’d given to Lance. Oliver never calls it, only texts, and he knows that half the time it’s stuck in the cyber division. He doesn’t worry; there’s no chance of them tracking him through it and it can’t send messages, only receive, thanks to a clever trick of Felicity’s.

The guns in the back of the truck should be enough evidence to hold the men in front of him, and if not Lance is usually good enough to get someone to turn on the others, confessing everything in hopes of a shorter sentence. And if that’s still not enough, and one or even all of them end up on the streets again, as some of them inevitably will, whether after prison or not, maybe they’ll think twice about getting involved in criminal behavior in his city.

With the authorities alerted, Oliver nocks an arrow and follows Sara’s path into the abandoned theater. She meets him at the door, footfalls silent, her dark outfit barely noticeable in the shadows that fill the space.

“They’ve cleared out,” she tells him.

Oliver nods once. He’d expected no less. “Anything?”

“Nothing useful.”

He’ll give the place a more thorough once-over later, but for now they need to be out of the way when the police arrive. Oliver returns his arrow to his quiver and pulls the door open again. “You dad might be coming,” he reminds Sara as they return to the more brightly lit outdoors, dawn now properly touching the sky.

Sara doesn’t say anything. She refuses to let her family know that she’s alive, but Oliver knows she drinks in any sight of them that she can get. More than once they’ve lingered at crime scenes so that she could watch Detective Lance at his job. Still, Sara doesn’t need to say anything for Oliver to catch her intent. They head to the roofs again to sit and wait.

* * *

It had been late – or very early, depending on your point of view – when they’d hit the gunrunners, and there’s no chance of the police vacating the scene before daybreak properly arrives. Oliver and Sara linger for a while, long enough for Sara to get a good glimpse of her father, cranky about the hour and the new shift schedule assigned to his taskforce but quickly and efficiently taking charge of the investigation, and then they leave before the sun breaches the horizon and go their separate ways.

Oliver resolves to return the next night, avoiding any police presence that might remain, and decides this night is over, or at least his time on the streets is. He returns to the foundry and changes, doing a few stretches just to keep him awake and limber.

After hydrating and grabbing a light snack, he settles down in front of the computers and gets to work.

There’s a lot more to being a vigilante than just putting arrows through criminals, and Oliver no longer has backup in the foundry who can work while he’s out on the streets. He catalogs every crime he’d stopped or been too late to stop that night himself, adding them to a file and a list of names (when he has the names) in order to update their map of criminal activity in the Glades. Once that is done, he switches over to the other names and crimes he’d cataloged earlier that week. Two of the people he’d left tied up in alleys the past week have been let go by the police, with no evidence to hold them, but they’re in the databases now as people of interest. It might not be enough, might not stop them from committing more crimes, but it’s all the justice system can do.

One person has been let go completely. Oliver makes a note to scope out her place later, make sure she’s not returning to a life of (attempted) carjacking.

While he’s in the SCPD’s system, thanks to Felicity’s backdoor, Oliver looks at the vigilante taskforce’s current caseload.

There’s a man in the hospital who managed to stop an attempted mugging but broke a few bones in the process. The police report dismisses him as a good Samaritan in the right place at the right time, not a would-be vigilante, and after reading it Oliver agrees. He moves on.

Even lower on the list of priorities is an uptick in Green Arrow graffiti on walls and bridges and fences around the city. Oliver couldn’t care less about that.

Next is a breaking and entering. Cameras were destroyed, but there’s grainy footage of a car racing through a red light a few blocks away from the scene. No one was hurt but there was plenty of property damage and plenty of Green Arrow graffiti at the scene. It’s a case from a few days ago, but there are no new updates since Oliver last looked. Regardless, it’s not something he feels any need to get involved in.

Sara, of course, is on the police’s radar, but they have no new updates on her either besides a few miscellaneous sightings, some accurate, some not. His own file grows thicker every night he hits the street, as they record every incident they think he’s involved in (and some of those, too, are fake, criminals more willing to admit they were beat up by the Arrow than that they lost a fight to a rival gang). But there doesn’t seem to be any motivation to actually catch him, despite the fact that there is still technically a warrant out for his arrest.

Then there’s the research they’ve done into the copy of the List Oliver had given Quentin. Oliver doesn’t bother to read through that file, because he knows it’s just a compilation of facts about the names mentioned and doesn’t contain any plans about targeting the men on it. The SCPD has finally ruled that the List doesn’t fall under the taskforce’s jurisdiction, and they’ve handed it off to white collar crimes. Some of the men have been placed under heavier surveillance, and a few warrants have been issued, but for the most part the police are keeping the List quiet, only targeting the people they were already going after.

_They don’t want to upset their donors_ , Oliver can’t help but think bitterly. He knows the current police commissioner isn’t on the List, but the one from four years ago is.

Finally, there’s the barest beginnings of a file on the gunrunners Oliver and Sara had interrupted tonight, as the taskforce begins to gather information. Everything else in the system is minor: the tip line call log, a list of possible crimes he may have stopped, possible witnesses they can talk to about the Green Arrow, and a denied request for surveillance on a particularly small and rowdy Green Arrow fan club.

After exiting the police database, Oliver moves on to scanning through the 911 calls made that night. Felicity had written an algorithm a long time ago that sorts them fairly well. One-time crimes with no names to the perpetrators yet – car jackings, muggings, assaults – as well as emergencies that required ambulance or fire only, get ignored. The police have the information, and Oliver’s not in the business of solving those minor crimes, just stopping them if he manages to get there in time. But any mention of suspicious activity gets flagged, as well as any crimes that appear similar and more than once.

There’s a call about movement in a warehouse at the southern edge of the Glades, but Oliver drives by there fairly often and he’s been in that warehouse within the past month. The caller sounds nervous too – probably somebody just jumping at shadows. Nothing else stands out.

With the crime reports read and cataloged, Oliver moves on to the information they have about the Bertinelli crime family. There are other gangs and crime families in Star City, of course – the Bratva, the Triad, the Culebra gang, among others – but Oliver knows his limitation. Much like he’d gone after the members of the List one by one (and is still doing that, in a way) he can’t take them all down simultaneously. The Bertinelli family has suffered through Frank Bertinelli’s arrest and Helena’s actions against them. Right now, they’re the weakest in Star City, so they’re who he’s targeting.

Talk on the street says the Culebra gang won’t deal with them anymore, after the disastrous drug deal Oliver and the police had stopped, so they’re struggling even more now. After questioning people the past few weeks and relying on information from Roy, Oliver finally has solid evidence – good enough to hand to the police, if he thought they could use it legally – of the new name of the new head: Pino Bertinelli, Frank’s nephew. Now he takes some time to review all the information they’ve gathered and consider his next move – and when to make it.

By the time Oliver finishes all that the sun has long since rise, the club overhead is as silent as a grave, and his limbs ache for a horizontal surface. He does a quick up and down on the salmon ladder instead, showers off in ice-cold water, grabs an apple and a granola bar from his stash (which needs replenishing, he notes) and sits down again.

Next he digs into his research on the List, then the audio feeds he’s planted, then the news. He checks Queen Consolidated’s stock price and looks up what people are saying about Ed Carlin. He reads through his emails to see if there’s anything related to Verdant that needs his attention, or any updates from his mother’s lawyer about her case. He handles a few details regarding the upcoming fundraiser Oliver Queen is throwing after the gas line explosions.

By two in the afternoon, Oliver can’t ignore the ache in his limbs or the unsteadiness in his eyes any longer; he’s tired enough that he knows he needs to stop. He could push himself – he knows he’s capable of it – but he also knows he doesn’t need to, not any longer, even if he has to keep reminding himself of that.

He packs up, locks down the foundry, and makes his way home.

* * *

Breath heavy, sweat coating his body, Oliver starts awake only a little more than an hour after he’d lain down. He can’t tell if it’s the footsteps in the hallway or the scenes of horror still lingering in the back of his mind that woke him, but it matters little. Thea’s approaching and he’s awake now anyway. He forces his breathing to get under control and swipes at his forehead with the back of his hand.

When she knocks – which she’s only really started doing with any seriousness since the Undertaking, after she’d seen him wake from a nightmare once – Oliver’s voice is steady when he responds. “A minute,” he calls out, pushing aside the blankets and standing.

Now that she knows he’s awake, Thea ignores the closed door, pushing it open with her gaze averted.

“Tell me you’re decent,” she says.

Oliver rolls his eyes at her tone even as her words remind him that he tends to wear a t-shirt to bed these days. Thea doesn’t need to be reminded of his scars. “I’m decent,” he says, and then, trying to sound like someone who was partying all night, he rubs at his eyes and speaks again. “What time is it?”

It’s Thea’s turn to roll her eyes. “After three,” she says. “I didn’t want you to sleep through the meeting.” There’s fond amusement in her tone. She’s more than used to his ways even if she doesn’t know the true reasons behind them.

“What meeting is that again?” Oliver asks lightly, forcing a faint grin onto his face. His heart has finally calmed but he’s still pushing past the anxiety from his nightmare and his grin isn’t entirely real.

Thea frowns at him for a second or two before she realizes he’s joking. “Very funny,” she says, deadpan. “I’ll see you at Verdant in an hour.”

She moves to leave, but Oliver stops her. “Why don’t we just head in together? Unless you’ve got plans afterward?”

“I want to try and convince Roy to take the job again,” she says, raising the car keys in her hand so he can see them.

Oliver nods. “Alright then,” he says. “See you in an hour.”

“Don’t be late,” Thea warns him as she leaves.

“I might just go back to bed!” Oliver calls down the hallway after her, but they both know he doesn’t mean it. It feels good, to joke with his sister again, to know she’s once more comfortable to just walk into his room, but the subterfuge beneath it all still sits uncomfortably on his shoulders.

Thea thinks she knows why he comes in so late and sleeps until the afternoon, but she really has no clue how he’s spending his time. Oliver has no intention of telling her the truth, of telling her about the monster that has consumed her brother, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

* * *

An hour of sleep isn’t much, but it’s enough for Oliver to be able to get his thoughts in order regarding transferring management of Verdant. He’s still the owner, of course, and Tommy’s still the top manager, but they’ll be taking a more hands-off approach in the future, with Thea as the secondary, on-site manager. All their employees will report to her first. (Oliver can’t say he’s not a little bit relieved, to have more of Verdant’s workings taken off his plate. He doesn’t regret opening the club, but he’d never expected to own it _and_ attempt to be as involved in Queen Consolidated as he has been. At least he’s done with most of his responsibilities there too.)

But all that means that Thea needs to be familiar with the club, with the entrances and exits, the bouncers and bartenders. She needs to know what they tend to keep in stock and who their distributors are. She needs to know what goes along with keeping a liquor license and how to handle the underage customers who inevitably sneak in. She needs to know what to do when she finds drugs on a customer – or, worse, if she or one of her employees catches someone dealing. In a nightclub, any nightclub, with the alcohol flowing and the music pounding, there are a hundred and one different ways something could go wrong.

Oliver doesn’t expect Thea to be breaking up any fights, but she has to know how to handle it when her bouncers do it for her. She has to be able to stare down irate customers (not something he thinks she’ll have a problem with, actually) who could be drunk or sober.

As he and Tommy finish telling her all this, in the office on the second floor with a silent and empty Verdant behind them, Thea just blinks at them.

“You really think I’ve never been to a nightclub?” she asks, half grinning in a way that lets Oliver know her words are mostly a joke.

He exchanges amused but exasperated glances with Tommy.

“No, seriously,” Thea continues. “I asked for this because I _wanted_ it. I’m not going to screw it up.”

And Oliver believes her, or at the very least believes that _she_ believes it. This is something Thea thinks she needs. Whether or not it actually is, only time will tell. But right now she believes this will help her, give her something to do, and with he and Tommy as busy as they are, who is he to argue with that?

He pushes the paperwork across the desk to her. “Tommy and I agreed you’re not starting as manager,” he says, their final condition. “You’ll be shadowing one of the bartenders for a week, then one of the bouncers. After that, you’ll shadow Tommy for two weeks.”

Thea gapes at him. “A _month_?” she asks in surprise. “I thought –”

Tommy shifts, leaning forward. “It’s mostly formal,” he interrupts quickly. “You’ll start slowly taking over on a day to day basis – making decisions, calling the distributors, even dealing with the police, if necessary. But we don’t want to dump everything on you all at once.”

The truth is, part of Oliver _does_. If Thea wants to be kept busy, that’s the best way to do so. But Tommy’d been against it, and Oliver knows his ideas on how to learn (sink or swim) are probably not well suited to normal life. On Lian Yu on the other hand… He’d given into Tommy’s suggestions without protest.

“You agreed to take an online class,” he reminds her. “It’s not that we don’t think you can’t handle it, but there were two of us in the beginning and there’s only one of you.”

Thea rolls her eyes, jaw clenched slightly, but she pulls the paperwork toward her, scanning the first few lines as she picks up the pen. “When do I start?”

“How about tonight?”

* * *

* * *

_October 9, 2013:_

The rest of the weekend and the start of the next week passes. Not quickly, but it passes. He sees Thea and Tommy less and less, the two of them going their separate ways, each with things to do that no longer involve him.

Thea throws herself into Verdant, and continues to hang out with Roy, and their afternoon movies taper off.

Tommy, though he hasn’t outright asked yet, seems to be somewhat aware of the tension between Oliver, Felicity, and Digg – probably because he hasn’t even seen Felicity in weeks, or Digg outside of bodyguarding duties – and very much doesn’t seem to want to get involved. He’s been coming down to the basement less and less. Although, that could just be because he’s busy. Truth be told, Oliver hasn’t been spending enough time with his best friend to be sure.

He keeps himself busy in the meantime. The men bringing guns into the Glades have a decently large operation, it turns out, and they’re not overly spooked by one encounter with the Arrow and the SCPD. They simmer down their activities a bit, but they’re still running guns, and there’s a thousand people on the List beside them that Oliver’s still targeting. The Bertinelli family is still on the streets. Nights turn into time for patrolling and planting bugs and searching for hints of the automatic weapons that he now knows are in the Glades – and occasionally finding them. Days become time for research, for sorting through the feeds he has from the bugs already placed and using the names of criminals already caught to try and track down their associates.

Wednesday, he gets a hit on a man he recognizes from the first fight he and Sara had had with the gunrunners, the someone who’d gotten away.

That night, Oliver suits up as usual and actively seeks out his newest partner in crime – who just happens to also be one of his oldest partners.

* * *

“Up for another fight?”

Sara eyes her old friend critically. She can’t deny the appeal, but… “I got my fill the other night. Why didn’t you?”

Returning to Star City has mostly just been another way for her to torture herself. She watches her sister and father from afar, passes by places she used to know, and does not let herself reconnect with any of it. Over and over she rejects what she desires, knowing it is not what she deserves, knowing she deserves the pain that it causes her and unwilling to bring that same suffering to her family.

Oliver and Sin are the only two lights in the darkness she surrounds herself with. She’d known Oliver had become the Green Arrow the moment she’d heard stories of an emerald archer in Star City, but she’d never planned to reconnect with him. In the end, he hadn’t given her much of a choice in the matter.

But she doesn’t really regret how things have turned out so far. Not on her end, at least. Sara is beyond grateful for his silent understanding, for the echo of her own suffering she sees in his eyes, but she can also see what she’s doing to him, far more than she thinks he can.

He’s been rebuilding a life for himself in Star City, brick by agonizing brick, and her very presence has torn it apart.

His team has left him for keeping her secret. He sleeps less, fights more, and gets hurt more as a result. He’s distancing himself from Thea and Tommy, spending more time on the streets, less time at home.

Oliver’s shoulders stiffen ever so slightly at her words, barely noticeable, especially through the costume he’s taken to wearing. (Not that Sara has any room to talk, considering the outfit she’d claimed for herself.)

“It’s not about me,” Oliver says, though he’s fooling himself if he really believes that. “I tracked down our gunrunners.”

Sara doesn’t question that – if Oliver says he’s found them, then he’s found them – but there are other things to question. “And the police?” She can’t believe she’s asking it, but she is.

She’s seen Oliver’s slow degradation since the moment they’d reconnected. He’s still hoping she’ll tell Laurel and her father she’s alive. He’s still hoping she’ll tell him who it was that fished her out of the cold waters around Lian Yu. (Sara very carefully does not allow her thoughts to drift to Nyssa.)

He’s still hoping that she’ll join him in the light. He refuses to see that, instead, he’s rejoining her in the dark.

But Sara sees it. She doesn’t want to give him up either, but this is why she hadn’t revealed herself to him the moment she’d arrived in Star City. She taints everything she comes into contact with, ruins everything she touches. She should have known Oliver was no exception.

She doesn’t want to give him up. Doesn’t want to give up the friendship and comradery and the lack of expectations. Doesn’t want to give up their shared past and Oliver’s hopes for a better future.

She’s long since learned that what she wants is irrelevant.

“Where?” she asks, giving in. ( _Still_ , she reasons with herself, _there’s at least another month before the League finds me_. She can stay a little while longer. _You said that last week_ , another part of her whispers, a part that grows louder with each passing day.)

Oliver grins, but his eyes are tired. He knows he hasn’t fooled her. He revs his motorcycle anyway.

“Hop on,” he invites.

Sara does.

* * *

“Hold still,” Sara mutters needlessly, knowing Oliver is as stationary as he can be, short of tying him down.

His breath hisses in and out from between his lips, his chest moving shallowly under her touch, his muscles stiff and tense with the effort of keeping himself still. Shadows encroach on her vision, the building they’re in at the moment gray and poorly lit. Oliver lies on the ground in front of a grimy window, Sara letting a streetlight outside guide her touch.

His jacket’s unzipped and pulled back but not removed. His bow lies on the floor at his left side, a few arrows next to it. They’re vulnerable at the moment, but it would take him barely a second to bolt upright and fire off at an arrow at an intruder to the scene. His hood’s still up, her mask still on. And her fingers are coated in his blood. After all the time she’s spent in Star City, it’s been awhile since she’s been this close to another’s life force, spilling crimson around her in a nightmarish clash of Christmas colors against Oliver’s costume.

It’s not the blood that bothers her. It’s not even really the injury. She wouldn’t wish Oliver any pain, but they both have plenty of scars already – what’s one more?

It’s the fact that Oliver got injured at all that bothers her. It’s the fact that they’re here, just the two of them, with no backup and without all the carefully stocked equipment Oliver has in his basement hideout.

She pushes the needle in her hands through flesh carefully, with practiced ease, her hand as steady as Oliver’s carefully regulated breathing, and pulls it out again the other side. Oliver doesn’t flinch, and his careful shallow breathing doesn’t falter. The wound isn’t fatal, just a glancing blow below his right ribs, but it’s long enough and deep enough that the corner of Oliver’s unzipped jacket already sits in a small puddle of blood on the floor.

The foundry and the clock tower had both been too far to venture to, Oliver’s motorbike too unsteady a form of transportation for someone with a chest wound. A car would have been fine, with someone else driving and her in the backseat applying pressure to the wound – or even Oliver doing it himself as she drove – but Oliver had been against letting her steal a car just for this and he doesn’t have anyone to call. Not anymore. Not thanks to her.

They’d made their way into an abandoned building only a few blocks north of their fight instead. The floor is filthy, but Oliver had at least had a small lighter on him to stabilize the needle he’d also carried.

“One more,” Sara tells him, pushing the metal through his skin one last time.

He grunts in acknowledgement, not pain, and sits up slowly after she finishes off the stitches. “Thanks,” he gets out, trying to twist to look at them.

It’s a reflex, Sara knows, which is why she doesn’t scold him for the effort, only slaps his hand away from where it tugs at his flesh.

At least he looks vaguely apologetic and self-aware.

The thing is, even if the foundry had been closer, Sara still wouldn’t have taken Oliver there, and that’s most of the problem. She can’t risk running into Tommy. Oliver would have understood, if she’d voiced that, would have been fine with staying away, for her sake, but he shouldn’t have to be.

Oliver is injured, yes, and that’s not a big deal, but the fact that she can’t take him where he needs to go to get proper treatment is. The fact that there’s no one waiting for him in Verdant’s basement to help – not anymore, because of her – is the problem. Even a month ago, Digg would have stitched Oliver up. He would have had disinfectant and stored blood to use if he’d needed it, or a water bottle for rehydration if not. Sara knows this because Oliver’s shared some of his exploits with her, because she’s seen what he has waiting for him in the foundry and gone through his equipment that first night.

He’s fighting on less sleep too. Putting in more work, throwing himself into fights. Sara hasn’t even been fighting side by side with him for a month yet. But she can easily see the difference between how he was then and how he is now. He’s not stupid and Sara wouldn’t even really call it reckless – he knows what he’s doing – but he’s trying to distract himself by keeping busy, and that might just very well get him killed if he overworks himself too much.

Maybe he would have gotten injured anyway, and maybe it would have been just as bad, and maybe he wouldn’t have been any safer if she’s stayed away and he’d kept his backup. But he would have been better rested, at the very least. Less stressed. It’s her fault that he’s not, and Sara has caused enough pain in her life. Oliver’s felt enough pain in his.

She won’t be the cause of anymore.

Besides, she reasons with herself as Oliver gently pulls his jacket over his wound, zipping it back up as she cleans up the needle and remaining thread, she’s stayed in Star City long enough as it is. Oliver was right – the earthquake was nothing but an excuse. The League is looking for her, and after all this time they can’t be that far behind anymore. It’s time she moves on.

“Can you get to Verdant on your own?” she asks. The question is a placeholder, said almost unconsciously while she gives herself time to think. She doesn’t doubt Oliver’s skills or his determination, but even if she’s finally made her decision to move on, for the first time since she’s started running, she has people she’s leaving behind. Oliver and Sin, namely, but still people.

Does she walk away from Oliver here and now, and never look back, or does she take the time to say goodbye? She isn’t sure yet.

* * *

There’s almost certainly something going on with ‘Team Arrow’, though Tommy hasn’t come right out and asked anything of any of them yet. Felicity had finally texted him back with some nonsense small talk (though Digg hasn’t replied once) and he’s been heading to the basement less and less these days anyway, so he could simply be missing them each time. But he doesn’t really believe that. Digg’s been distant the two times Tommy’d seen him these last few weeks and he hasn’t seen Felicity’s bug in Verdant’s parking lot once (even if Digg does sometimes give her a ride, it’s not a great sign).

Plus, there’s Oliver himself. His friend has grown more distant again, which could simply be because Tommy has backed out somewhat from activities involving the vigilante, but Tommy doesn’t think that’s it either. After the Undertaking, Oliver had picked up his public appearances as Oliver Queen, still a playboy, still fond of loud parties and alcohol, but genuinely caring about his city. Now he’s barely mentioned his upcoming fundraiser to Tommy and only seems half-heartedly invested in it.

Tommy’s doubts and uncertainties and suspicions fester for weeks, until he finally forces himself to head down to the lair late one Wednesday night – early Thursday morning, actually. He doesn’t really like what he finds. Oliver sits alone on the shiny metal table that Felicity calls the ‘operation table’ (and that had not been a pleasant story either, but it’s what Tommy’s mind jumps to when he sees his best friend in the world sitting there with blood dripping down his side.

Oliver’s shirtless, in the Green Arrow’s leather pants and boots, brow furrowed in concentration. It’s Tommy’s first real glimpse of his friend’s scars and tattoos, but all he can focus on is the blood and the cloth in Oliver’s hand.

“Oh my god, Oliver!” he hurries down the stairs, then pauses as he nears, completely at a loss for how to react or what to do next.

Oliver looks up, still frowning. He’s not surprised to see Tommy – he’s never surprised these days – but he doesn’t seem all that pleased either. “I’m fine,” he says plainly, calmly. “Already stitched up.” He lifts the cloth blocking Tommy’s view to show the neatly closed wound, then lowers it again when Tommy feels a squeamish expression cross his face.

He'd seen blood and panicked, but the truth is there’s only a small trickle down Oliver’s side. Tommy blinks and attempts to refocus on his surroundings, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest. Honestly, he doesn’t care how small the injury is, or if it’s already taken care of. It tugs at something in his chest to see Oliver hurt regardless. He frowns.

“Where’re Digg and Felicity?” he asks. Surely Digg was the one to stitch Oliver up, right? What other explanation is there? But he’s not here, not from what Tommy can see.

“Home,” Oliver says shortly. He’s still holding the cloth to his wound as he watches Tommy closely.

Tommy moves his gaze back to Oliver, notes again that his best friend is still half in costume, that there’s a bottle of disinfectant, that there’s no trace of Felicity or Diggle down here, and finally, finally, notices the scars that cover Oliver’s body. He’s not ashamed to admit he gapes, for a moment.

“Oliver…”

Oliver’s return stare is hard and unflinching. Tommy reminds himself that he already knew his friend had suffered, that something had turned the fun-loving idiot who’d disappeared into the unforgiving expanse of the sea six years ago into a man who can kill without hesitation. Seeing it is another thing. So is seeing his newest scar.

And yet… and yet…

Tommy’s heart aches and there’s a lump in his throat and _this is just another thing he’ll have to lie to Laurel about_. This is why he’d stopped coming down here. And yet how can he ignore the fact that Oliver is injured, that he’d gotten hurt helping people?

He tries to refocus on Digg and Felicity’s absence, and the fact that he hasn’t seen them here for weeks. If they’re here to help Oliver – if he can get them here – then he doesn’t need to worry so much about not being here himself. That’s what gotten him through the distance he’s put between himself and this basement. Diggle and Felicity are good people. He’s not leaving Oliver to do this alone.

But maybe he has been, lately, without even knowing it.

“Did something happen?” he asks. His words are slightly unfocused, his gaze drawn to Oliver’s torso. (There are so many _scars_ covering his best friend’s body.)

“Just a graze.”

Tommy shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant,” he says, and the ‘ _and you know it’_ goes unsaid in his tone.

Oliver’s expression doesn’t shift. “Diggle and Felicity needed a break,” he says. Short, simple, and revealing absolutely nothing. That’s par for the course regarding conversations with Oliver these days. (There’d been a time when he’d talk openly about these things in front of Tommy – not to him, really, after he’d mentioned wanting to back out slightly, but in front of him. Of course, if Felicity and Diggle aren’t there for Oliver to talk to in the first place…)

“Is that the truth?” he finds himself asking without thinking. He doesn’t mean it – doesn’t mean to be so accusing as Oliver sits there with his own blood on his hands – except, yeah, he kind of _does_. He’s known for weeks that something had happened between the three (even if he still has no idea of how bad), he just hadn’t willing to confront it. And Oliver hadn’t bothered to say one thing about it either. The blame isn’t all on him here.

“Yes,” Oliver replies, steel in his voice.

Despite himself, Tommy shifts backward slightly at the tone – not quite a flinch, but near enough. His gaze goes again to Oliver’s wound. This isn’t the time to be fighting about this again.

“Look…” he starts.

Oliver shakes his head, interrupting. “You don’t have to keep dragging yourself down here, Tommy.”

“I’m not…” Tommy shakes his own head, protest dying on his lips. Yeah, maybe he is. He hates the blood and the injuries and the violence and the way he still has nightmares on his worst days about Oliver killing his father, but more than that he hates the secrecy and the _lies_. It’s just… it’s _Oliver_. He can’t bring himself to stay away entirely. “Are you going to tell me why you’re working alone again?”

A moment’s pause.

“No.”

At least he’s honest about that, but Tommy still feels a swell of irritation at the word. The worst part is, he can’t even tell if he’s angrier with Oliver or himself. He’d asked to keep his distance from the vigilante stuff and Oliver has responded by keeping secrets from him again. But if Oliver _had_ told him whatever secret he’s keeping – if he tells him now – that’ll be just another thing he’ll have to keep from Laurel, and he’s already near enough to his breaking point as far as that’s concerned. He doesn’t know what he _wants_.

(He wants the old Oliver back. He wants to ask Malcolm _why_. He wants his father to not be a mass murderer. He wants Oliver to not be a killer. He wants it to go back to him and Oliver and Laurel, thick as thieves, even if he’s the one dating Laurel this time. He wants Sara Lance and Robert Queen to be alive. He could keep going.

He wants his mom back.)

“Maybe you’re right,” he concedes. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this Oliver, if I can watch you do this to yourself.” It’s not the first time he’s seen Oliver bleeding down here. (He’s got a better idea of his friend’s conviction now; he doesn’t think his paltry words will convince Oliver to stop, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try.)

“Then don’t,” Oliver replies simply, no anger or sorrow in his words. No emotion at all.

Tommy grimaces, swallows, and turns away in response to that, unable to come up with anything to say when it seems so much like Oliver just doesn’t _care_. But how could he not? Tommy’s thought that before, that Oliver doesn’t care, but… But he knows that’s not true. This is still _Oliver_ , however much he’s changed, and Tommy’s starting to learn to read his best friend again.

This is Oliver, who still probably isn’t even sure if Tommy considers himself to be his best friend.

He does. He always has. He always will. He doesn’t like the secrets or the lies, but that’s still his best friend tending to his own wounds behind him, and apparently he’s working alone tonight.

Tommy glances back, hesitant but determined.

“Need anything?”

Oliver’s smile in return is among the more genuine of his expressions these days. Small, but a glimpse of the man he’d once been. “I’m good,” he says. “Lunch tomorrow? I want to hear about how the clinic’s going.”

“I think you mean today,” Tommy replies with a grin, pushing aside all his feelings of anger and frustration and confusion.

Oliver grins and nods in agreement and Tommy walks away with turmoil in his heart. He no longer hates what the Green Arrow is doing, has started to recognize Oliver again in the man who’d come home, but he doesn’t know if he _supports_ what Oliver’s doing (especially not in regards to what it’s doing _to_ Oliver) and he knows he doesn’t like lying to Laurel about it.

Tommy wants Oliver to still be a part of his life, but secrets have never been a part of that. He was a reckless idiot, but he’d never been much of a liar. He doesn’t know how to handle the two opposing forces that tug at him now.

* * *

* * *

_October 10, 2013, dawn_ :

Morning creeps softly over Star City, gentle and slow. The sun peaks its head up above the horizon, dodging around the myriad buildings in its way. No matter what it always shines, but this will be the last time Sara watches its light reflect off the shimmering glass that fills her hometown.

It isn’t the sunrise she’s watching at the moment though.

Bundled up in blankets to keep warm in the chilly autumn night, Sin nevertheless sleeps peacefully at the top of the clock tower they’ve lived in together for over two months now. She still doesn’t know Sara is leaving.

Oliver, she suspects, has probably already guessed from the way she’d left things last night, however much he’d seemed unwilling to voice his suspicions aloud when they’d finally parted ways, but she hasn’t actually told anyone yet. There are only two people she really wants to tell. (Four, if she’s being brutally honest with herself, but her father and Laurel don’t even know she’s alive.) Oliver won’t be difficult. He’ll disagree with her reasoning, he’ll argue, but he’ll let her go in the end. Sara knows he won’t try to take her choices from her.

It’s Sin who she doesn’t know how to tell, Sin who she doesn’t want to leave. Oliver, Laurel, her father… they can take care of themselves. That’s not to say that Sin can’t, she’s far more capable than Sara ever was at her age, but… She’s got no one else.

Sara’s been teaching her how to defend herself but that’ll only go so far. Besides, winter’s coming. How can she leave the young woman in front of her to fend for herself? And how can she tell her that the friend she’s gained these past few months is about to leave her?

Turning away, facing the rising sun instead, Sara shakes her head. She’s let sentiment and emotion overtake her, something she can’t do in these circumstances. Sin has other friends, other acquaintances, even if they aren’t much better off than her. She’s got places she can go. She’s survived the winter in Star City before. The city doesn’t get that much snow.  

And Sara has always known that her stay in Star City would be brief. She’d never given Sin any allusions that their time together would be permanent.

She’s going to tell her goodbye, and then she’s going to leave, because to not do so would be to bring about Sin’s death. The League is after her, and Sara’ll do anything in her power to keep them away from the ones she loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 16: Picking Up the Pieces, should be posted October 11th. Thanks for reading!


	16. Picking up the Pieces

_October 11, 2013, night:_

It’s a text from Sara that brings John back to Verdant, of all things, after over three weeks away. It doesn’t sound like much, in the grand scheme of things. Three weeks. Not quite a month. But his life’s been so different the past year, ever since he’d followed after Oliver that night at the Unidac auction and got poisoned with curare. He’d been saving lives again. And then he hadn’t been.

Because of _her_.

No. That’s wrong. That’s cruel. He doesn’t like Sara’s choices, but those choices aren’t why he and Felicity had left. It had been Oliver’s choices he’d fought against – Oliver’s habit of not involving the two of them in his decisions, Oliver’s habit of not telling them information about his past even when it was relevant to their present, Oliver’s habit of not caring who his lies and secrets affected.

He doesn’t even know how Sara got his number. Scratch that, there’s only one place she could have gotten it from – Oliver. Quite frankly, John’s not too fond of that idea either. Forget that Sara’s a killer ( _because Oliver had been too_ , his inner voice constantly reminds him), he still doesn’t trust her.

Doesn’t trust her choices, even if that’s not why he left.

Oliver had come home as soon as he could. He’d let his family know that he was still alive. He hadn’t sulked around in the shadows and refused to ease their burdens. John knows the pain of a lost family member. He can’t understand how Sara can continue to do that to her family and can’t understand how Oliver can be a party to it.

It doesn’t really matter that Sara’s a killer (well, it _does_ , but it’s not why John’s upset). It’s the secrets and lies, piling up after months and months. Sara’s secrets had just tipped the scales, and tipped them heavily.

And now she has his phone number.

She won’t text her sister or her father, won’t step out of the shadows for them, but she’ll send him a text that says _Foundry. 8pm. SL._ and expect him to show.

The worst part is that he doesn’t trust her, is still angry with Oliver, but as soon as she says _jump_ apparently his reply is _how high?_ because here he is, pulling into Verdant’s brightly lit parking lot at 7:56 p.m.

The place is as packed with clubbers as it always is, but even the upbeat music spilling from the main area can’t distract him from the frustration and worry that war within his gut and keep his shoulders tense. The scenarios running through his mind range from ‘ _Oliver’s dead and we’re the only ones she can tell’_ to _‘Oliver’s dead and she killed him’_. They both seem equally unlikely, but that doesn’t mean that Oliver isn’t hurt, or that she hasn’t betrayed him, or a thousand other things. John’s been gone three weeks, but he’d spent almost a year before that working side by side with Oliver. He knows what can happen. (John considers briefly that this is her attempt to get at him, to make sure he doesn’t tell her secret, but he’s fairly confident that she wouldn’t do that in Oliver’s foundry.)

On top of his worry for Oliver, for the circumstances that might merit such a text, lies John’s frustration. With Oliver and Sara, yes, but also with himself, for even listening to her. Despite his conviction to stay away, he’s come running back at the drop of a hat. The thing is, he actually _misses_ the work he used to do with Felicity and Oliver, even if the secrets and lies had gotten to be too much for him. He’s still kept in contact with Felicity these past three months, gone out for drinks with her. He hasn’t suggested yet that Oliver find another bodyguard.

But every single text he’s received from Tommy sits unanswered in his phone.

It’s not that John can’t lie when he needs to, but this… this isn’t the kind of thing he’s comfortable lying about. Tommy had known Sara too. He’s dating Laurel. He’s trying to keep his distance from Arrow work _because_ he’s dating Laurel. And John’s lost a brother. He knows Tommy would tell Laurel if he knew, and he _wants_ him to. So he’s keeping his distance.

Taking the easier to access side door instead of the hidden back one, John types in the code and wonders what he would have done if Oliver had been the one to text him. Maybe that’s why Oliver hadn’t. The thought is almost enough to make him turn around, that maybe Sara had been the one to contact him simply because Oliver was afraid that Digg wouldn’t answer if he’d done it himself.

But he dismisses that thought without much effort as he makes his way down the stairs, flicking on the lights as he does so. If Oliver had really needed his help (because after how they parted and what he knows about the other man, John can’t picture him getting in touch to apologize or admit he’d changed his mindset) he would have been man enough to tell him face to face. He wouldn’t have gone through Sara.

John doesn’t see anyone in the foundry when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, but he can’t see the bathroom door from where he stands and he spots Felicity’s familiar green bug pulling in next to his own car on the one computer monitor that’s lit.

“Glad you came,” says a soft voice from the shadows.

John’s embarrassed to admit he starts at the noise, spinning rapidly and pulling his gun before he realizes it’s just Sara. She looks… different. She’s not wearing black leather, for one, and rather than looking ready for a fight at his reaction she only looks patiently amused.

He can’t place it, but something has changed between this woman and the hardened and paranoid fighter he’d first met. ( _Maybe that change is Oliver_ , some part of his mind suggests.)

“Wasn’t sure what I’d find,” he answers honestly, unable to keep all of his frustration out of his tone as he holsters his gun.

Sara only grins slightly, waiting as the door clicks open behind Digg.

When Felicity enters the lair, John can tell she’s as surprised as he was to see that Oliver isn’t here yet. For one, he’d have expected Oliver to be hard at work already, given his usual habits, but more importantly, he doesn’t understand why Sara would want to speak to them without Oliver.

“I’m leaving,” Sara says, as soon as Felicity reaches the bottom of the steps. Her words are plain and unemotional, logical and exact. She doesn’t waste time on greetings or explanations. “I should have never come back in the first place, should never have let Oliver find out that I was alive –” John feels a sudden punch to his gut, exchanging horrified glances with Felicity at the unexpected words “– I drove a wedge between your team, and I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Wait, hold up,” Felicity interrupts, stepping forward, tone anxious, expression fearful. Any wariness she’d had toward Sara has seemingly evaporated in light of this new information. (John’s feeling similarly himself. He can’t blame Felicity for such a reaction.) “Oliver didn’t know you were alive?”

John both dreads and wants the answer – because now that he’s looking back, now that he is actually thinking back to all their arguments, Oliver had never actually said he had, had he? No, he and Felicity had assumed, and never confronted Oliver about that particular assumption, letting it fester between them instead.

Oliver had been stunned when he’d discovered that the other vigilante in Star City was none other than Sara Lance. John had recognized that easily enough. But for the first time, he realizes it wasn’t because Oliver had been surprised that Sara had come home, or surprised that she hadn’t told him she’d come home, like he’d thought. He’d been surprised that she was alive at all.  

John reaches this conclusion in the second it takes Sara to frown and cock her head slightly toward them in confusion. ( _She looks different, somehow_ , some part of his brain thinks again distractedly, but he can’t quite put his finger on what’s changed about her.)

“No,” she says, unaware of their inner turmoil, half question as though she’s confused as to how they could have ever thought that. “I thought Oliver was dead myself until I heard of the Arrow of Star City.”

Another imaginary punch hits Digg straight in the gut. That’s even worse, that whatever Oliver and Sara had been involved in had been so bad that both of them had walked away from it assuming that the other had had no chance of making it out alive. John’s stomach has practically fallen out of him, and he swallows, racked with guilt. Oliver had been willing to keep Sara’s secret not because he believed it was the right thing to do, but because he’d just gotten her back and hadn’t wanted to lose her again. It is an all too easy conclusion to come to, now that John has more of the facts.

John can’t help but wonder if he’d do the same thing. He’s been thinking about Andy a lot these days. If he found out that his brother was still alive (and he can’t let himself hope because he knows he isn’t, but it’s still the first scenario his mind jumps to), would he hide that fact from Carly if Andy asked him to? He wants to say he wouldn’t, that he’d be objective, that there wouldn’t be anything hypocritical in the way he’d handled this situation as opposed to one that exists only in his dreams, but, if he’s being honest with himself, he thinks the answer might be yes.

And even if Oliver had known Sara was alive this whole time, _even if_ that were the case, would it really change anything in Digg’s imaginary scenario. If Andy’s been alive this whole time, telling John to keep quiet, wouldn’t he do it, just to stay in his brother’s life? His answer for that question is less certain, but he can understand some of Oliver’s turmoil a bit better just by thinking of it.

If he got Andy back, he’d do almost anything to keep him.

Sara shakes her head in the silence, as if shaking off her confusion at their reactions and returning to the reason for their conversation in the first place. “I just wanted to tell you that you can’t blame him for keeping my secret – you keep his after all.”

It’s not the same thing at all, but that doesn’t change the revelations John’s had in the span of only a few minutes. He exchanges glances with Felicity, and by the time they turn back to Sara she’s gone, the sound of the door closing behind her echoing in her wake.

“Oh my god,” Felicity says in the silence that follows, stunned and horrified at the same time.

Yeah. John agrees with the sentiment whole-heartedly. They’ve screwed up. It doesn’t really matter if Oliver had known the whole time or not. Or, it matters _now_ , but that shouldn’t have been the catalyst for their argument. They hadn’t fought over facts, or even opinions. They’d fought over a misunderstanding, one that Oliver probably doesn’t even know exists, any more than they’d realized it existed before Sara had spoken.

They’d fought because they hadn’t bothered to sit down and clarify their assumptions and talk things through. (They’d fought, in part, because Oliver _wasn’t_ talking things through with them, but that didn’t change the fact that John and Felicity were the ones who made the incorrect assumption. They were the ones who should have been responsible for asking for clarification.)

Leaning to the side somewhat, John reaches out a hand and centers it on the nearest wall for support. “He never knew,” he says in response, barely hearing his own voice, or the horror in his tone.

Maybe it was mostly Oliver agreeing to keep Sara’s secret that Digg and Felicity had been pissed at, but a lot of that anger had stemmed from the fact that they’d thought Oliver had _always known_. That he’d come home last year knowing Sara was alive and had told her family she’d died on the _Gambit_. Oliver had given them a mere sentence or two of her being on the island with him, and they’d extrapolated that to mean that they’d separated when Oliver returned home. That’s not even close to the truth, apparently, because whatever had happened on that island had been bad enough that neither had known the other had survived.

Oliver hadn’t known Sara was alive all this time, and he doesn’t know that that is the reason John and Felicity have pulled back.

Truthfully, John still doesn’t want to keep this secret from Tommy, still thinks that Laurel and Quentin (and Mrs. Lance) deserve to know the truth, but – true to what Sara had asked of them – his anger at Oliver has vanished, replaced with frustration and regret.

If only Oliver had been more open about his past. If only he and Felicity had actually _asked_. If only the three of them had taken a deep breath and sat down to talk things out.

“A month,” Felicity says in disbelief. “Oliver’s spent nearly a month on his own because we…” she shakes her head.

Because they’d jumped to conclusions.

“We were so tired of him acting like he was alone, not consulting us, making his own decisions, and we… we responded to that by _leaving him alone_ ,” Felicity says, anguish clear in her tone.

“It’s not all on us,” John says, slightly defensive. “Oliver could have opened up to us.” He believes it, but he doesn’t put much weight behind his words. He can’t give Oliver equal blame for not talking about something that clearly brought up horrible memories. Besides, never leave a man behind. He’d been taught that fully, believed in the philosophy with every fiber of his being. And he’d done it anyway. He’d let Oliver go out there without backup, without even a voice in his ear for almost a month.

Felicity gives him a look, as if to say, _‘do you really expect Oliver to talk about his past?’_

He grimaces in response. They’ve had enough experience in that regard to know the answer to that. Straightening, John looks around the foundry basement. Not much has changed since he’d last been there.

Catching on, a look of grim determination crosses Felicity’s face. Without a word spoken she marches over to the computers, sets aside her purse, and settles into her old seat.

There’s no need for conversation. They’re both staying and they’re both going to try and fix this.

And this time, they’re going to use their words and actually _talk_ things through.

* * *

Oliver isn’t expecting anyone to be in the basement when he gets there, and he’s not expecting to linger long himself. Felicity and Diggle are gone. Sara left last night, or sometime early this morning. Tommy’s staying out of the Arrow business from here on out. And Superman would contact him first. No one else knows about the foundry.

He’s alone, and he’s got stitches in his side, and all he wants is to hit the streets as soon as possible. He and Sara had managed to round up a few more of the gunrunners but he knows they still haven’t gotten the leaders. Roy’s confirmed that there’s still a few out there.

Entering through the backdoor means he doesn’t see the parking lot, doesn’t spot his old partners’ familiar vehicles. The sight of Felicity at the computers though, the sight of Diggle cleaning his guns as though nothing has changed in the past month and it’s just another day between them…

Oliver actually freezes halfway down the stairs, taking a moment to absorb what his eyes are telling him, then keeps walking, footfalls as silent as possible against the metal stairs, shoulders tense. He hasn’t told them Sara has left yet, hadn’t even known if he was going to, so that can’t be the reason for their return.

But they had said, back in September, that they were only taking a break. Oliver had thought he’d known what they had meant by that, but apparently he was wrong. Apparently they _had_ only needed some time away. Maybe now, for them, that break is over.

The question is – what does that mean for them? Have they decided not to honor Sara’s secret, their need to tell Tommy and Laurel the truth outweighing his request? Or have they come to terms with it, and decided it is something they can live with?

He’s still tense as he finishes descending the stairs, muscles taut as he moves toward the mannequin that holds the Arrow’s suit, but he keeps his emotions off his face. Diggle and Felicity don’t. Awkwardness is written in every line of their bodies, discomfort and uncertainty and hesitation all mixed together. It seeps through the foundry, stilling the air, amplifying the silence.

His old partners might have returned, but they don’t seem to know what to say to him. Oliver can’t think of a thing to say either. He’d come to the foundry tonight expecting to be working alone again, having been unable to persuade Sara to stay, or even reveal who’s chasing after her.

Now Felicity and Diggle are back. People he’d chosen to work with him. People he’d meticulously researched, evaluated, considered… He’d involved them because he’d known – or at least, been as certain as he could be – that they wouldn’t have revealed his secret. But that was then. That was the people they’d been months ago.

He hadn’t accounted for how that might have changed. For how _he_ might have changed them.

For how he might have pushed them too far. Are they here to tell him they’re ready to reveal the truth about Sara’s existence? Or have they finally managed to see things his way?

“Oliver…” Felicity starts, jaw tight. She looks upset, but whether those emotions are directed toward him or not Oliver can’t tell.

_Do I trust them?_ Oliver asks himself for the briefest of microseconds. Felicity and Diggle don’t want to keep Sara’s secret. They don’t approve of him keeping Sara’s secret. They might have already told others the truth (though this possibility is, admitted, unlikely, given that Oliver has received no hate-filled voicemails from either Tommy or Laurel yet). But they’d worked together for months – almost a year, with Diggle.

Whatever they think of him, whatever he thinks of them, he trusts that they want to help the people of Star City, at the very least. Is that enough for him to work with them?

“People are bringing guns into the Glades,” he says, cutting off whatever words the IT genius was trying to think of, or any possibility of Diggle stepping in to rescue the unusually speechless Felicity. “Military grade automatic weapons.” If they’re here for an argument, he doesn’t want to hear it. If they’re here to help, then they’re here to _help_. Not talk. “Lance has some of them in custody, but we haven’t tracked down the leaders yet.” He pulls his suit off the mannequin as he speaks, folds it over his arm as he prepares to change.

“Oliver,” Diggle says, strong and reproachful. His tone says _‘we need to talk about this’_ but Oliver doesn’t want to.

They want to be done with their break, fine. He could use their help even if he doesn’t need it. But he doesn’t want to have to stand his ground against them again, doesn’t want to have to defend his or Sara’s position, doesn’t want another argument. Not right now. He doesn’t have the energy for it.

“So far the police haven’t been able to trace the guns,” he continues. “I’ve been meaning to cross reference everyone who’s been arrested, see what kind of connections some of them might have, but I haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

Diggle moves forward, stepping into Oliver’s path as he heads to the bathroom to change. He looks just as tense and on edge as Oliver feels (though he’s trying not to let that show) but there’s determination in his eyes. “Oliver,” he repeats, more firmly. “We know Sara left – she told us.”

Oliver’s mind blanks momentarily at that. She’d actually told them? He hadn’t gotten the impression she was saying goodbye to anyone other than him and the young homeless woman she’d saved and befriended. But he refocuses quickly enough. He can worry and wonder about why Sara told them later. Sara’s gone, and that’s why Diggle and Felicity are back.

He doesn’t understand the correlation. Her leaving doesn’t change her secret. But, maybe now that he won’t be working with her (and the thought tugs at the remnants of his heart, but he’ll be keeping tabs on her from here on out, so she isn’t really _gone_ ; not the way she was before), maybe now they’re more comfortable in the basement? Maybe now they don’t feel like they’ll have to lie to Tommy as much?

Maybe it doesn’t matter. If they decide to go behind his back and reveal Sara’s secret, Oliver’s certain that there’s nothing he can do to stop them, short of killing them. And that’s not an option. (It shows what a monster he is though, that his mind even thinks of that alternative. That too, is part of why they left, he figures.)

“Then you should know that she didn’t tell anyone else,” Oliver says pointedly, reminding them of the need for secrecy anyway, pushing past his bodyguard and moving quickly to change.

They’ll either keep the secret or they won’t. Oliver’d resolved himself to that weeks ago. If they’re here for an argument, trying to convince themselves one way or another, he’s not going to give it to them.

“Oliver!” Felicity calls out, more pleading than demanding. “You can’t just walk away from this!”

He pauses, regret but also anger roiling in his gut. Maybe he isn’t handling this well. They’ve extended a hand by coming back, maybe they’re just waiting for him to do the same. He doesn’t care. His stitches ache. Sara’s gone. And he’s not even sure he trusts his partners to keep his secret anymore.

“You’re the ones who left,” he says. He’s not the one who’d walked away. “No one asked you to come back.” He keeps walking. The bathroom door shuts behind him a bit more forcefully than normal.

When he exits, hood up and face paint on, Diggle and Felicity are still waiting for him. He’s had a moment to get his breathing steady, his anger under control.

He trusts them to help the people of Star City, he reminds himself. If they’re genuinely offering their help, he won’t turn that down.

“Someone’s bringing guns into the Glades,” he repeats, clearly and calmly.

The two of them exchange glances, wariness and uncertainty mingling oddly with determination.

“And we’ll help you get them,” Diggle promises. “But we have to talk about this first.”

Oliver moves over to his quiver. He double checks that it’s full and ready to go, then straps it to his chest. Only then does he turn back to them and respond. “You have five minutes,” he says, hopefully keeping all judgement out of his tone. They can talk all they want, doesn’t mean he has to say anything in return.

They already know his stance, after all. That was why they’d left.

“Look,” Felicity says, stepping forward nervously. “I still think that Sara’s family deserves to know that she’s alive – and I think you do too. But… but that’s Sara’s choice, we guess –” she shoots a glance over at Diggle “– so, what I’m trying to say is, well…” she pauses, swallows, and Diggle steps forward in the silence.

“We shouldn’t have gotten as upset as we did,” he continues for her, more smoothly. “Oliver… We thought you’d known she was alive the entire time. We… we didn’t really give you a chance to tell us the whole story – we pressed you too hard, too quickly. We, we didn’t realize she’d just returned from the dead for you too.”

“We’re sorry,” Felicity finishes when Diggle pauses. She swallows again. “I still want to tell Tommy – Detective Lance and Laurel too – but we won’t. We’ll keep her – your – secret.”

Diggle nods in agreement.

Oliver takes their apology, their explanation, their promise, without reacting. Through mediation techniques first taught to him by Shado, he keeps his body motionless but loose and his breathing even. When it’s clear that Felicity is finished speaking, he nods once. They’d thought he’d already known Sara was alive. They’d had no idea of how heavily his world had been shaken that night, of how much brighter it is now, simply because he knows that Sara is still in it.

Does any of that matter? They’ll keep the secret – his secret. That’s all he cares about, all he needs from them, isn’t it?

“Fine,” he says simply, and turns and leaves.

* * *

* * *

_October 12, 2013, afternoon:_

“October twenty-seventh, three pm?” Laurel confirms, leaning over the counter, very carefully making sure that her excitement – and her suspicion – isn’t showing on her face.

“I can’t guarantee something won’t come up,” the secretary repeats for the second time. “Dr. Anderson’s only a volunteer, after all. But I gave him your information after you called and he said he was happy to meet with you. Mind you, he can’t discuss anything related to…”

Laurel tunes out slightly as the woman drops into another spiel about client patient confidentiality and the fact that whatever Dr. Anderson does at the hospital has no connection to his work at the clinic. She’s gotten what she wants. It would be rude to interrupt at this point, and she’s not in the practice of sabotaging herself.

“I completely understand,” she says when the woman is done speaking, infusing sincerity into her tone as she glances over at Jo beside her.

Jo nods in agreement. “We’ll be as discreet as you need us to be,” she confirms, with the same gentle smile she usually uses on wary clients. The secretary more or less ignores her.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asks, seemingly directing her question only to Laurel.

“No, that was all we needed, thank you,” Laurel says, shifting her purse as she gets ready to leave.

“Have a nice day!”

“You too,” Laurel and Jo call back, echoing each other in unison as they leave.

Laurel holds in all her internal comments until they’re out of earshot. “Something doesn’t feel right about all this,” she confides to Jo in an undertone as the door swings shut behind them. She has a displeased frown on her face as she tries to place what it was about the clinic that isn’t sitting right with her. There’d been _something_ that had triggered some kind of memory, something about the waiting room that her brain is urging her to understand, but she can’t quite grasp it. Regardless, everything had seemed a little too easy, considering how much trouble she’s had so far.

“Well, I’ve learned to trust your gut,” Jo says, a slight bitter twist to her words as she glances back to the building as they stride towards Laurel’s car. “And that secretary was a bit…”

“Racist?” Laurel finishes for her. She might have grown up in a mostly white neighborhood and gotten a scholarship for the mostly white rich kids’ school she’d gone to with Oliver and Tommy, but Jo’s been her best friend for five years now. They’d met in law school and gotten their degrees together. And Laurel’s been working out of the Glades since even before she’d graduated. She’s long since started to recognize her own privilege. (Jo’s definitely helped with that, never afraid to call Laurel out.)

And yeah, maybe she’d taken the lead on the interview, but if anything that should have made the secretary less likely to be friendly to her and more likely to be friendly with Jo, the way Laurel had been pressing her. Instead they’d seen the opposite.

Jo gives her a side look over the car as they pull open their respective doors. “Yeah,” she says, in a tone that mixes disgust perfectly with exhaustion.

She doesn’t expect any better from the people she comes across. Laurel does.

“You don’t have to come back if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Laurel starts the car and buckles her seatbelt but doesn’t put the car into drive just yet. “I don’t want you to have to deal with –”

“No offense Laurel, but I deal with that all the time,” Jo says shortly.

Laurel pulls out of her parking spot in silence, maneuvers through the small parking lot, and flips on her blinker as she pulls up to the road, giving her friend a minute.

“Sorry,” Jo says after a moment, when a break in the traffic allows Laurel to pull out onto the street. She runs a hand through her hair, visibly calmer.

“No, you’re right, I don’t know anything about that,” Laurel admits unhappily. She hates injustice in the world, of all kinds. She’s not sure she really has the right to get angry though – she’s not the one who has to deal with it every day. “I just wish…”

“Don’t we all?” Jo shakes her head and fidgets with the charms on her bracelet for a few seconds. “Anyway, at least we’re getting somewhere.”

Happily accepting the topic change, Laurel lets the excitement she’d suppressed in front of the secretary well up inside her.

“Finally,” she breathes out with a grin, agreeing with her friend. Dr. Anderson’s staff at the hospital might have been able to keep them away but the staff at the clinic had been much more accommodating, once they’d actually shown up in person. “It’s _something_ at least.”

Truthfully, they hadn’t gotten much. The secretary had outright stated that Dr. Anderson was not allowed to discuss any of his work at the hospital with them, since it didn’t pertain to the volunteer work he did at the clinic, and that he wouldn’t be discussing any past, present, or future cases he took on at the clinic either, thanks to the patient confidentiality laws and contracts the facility had in place.

But it is still a face to face meeting, if only for a few minutes, which is more than they’d gotten from any other approach, and more than they’d expected to get walking into the place that afternoon. Laurel’s suspicious at that, but she’s not about to turn it down either.

Jo knows her too well though. She picks up on the minor hesitation in Laurel’s voice and gives her a look.

“You thought it was too easy too then?”

Laurel scoffs. “They didn’t even _try_ to say no – except when I called that first time they practically hung up on me when I admitted I was a lawyer.”

Jo hums thoughtfully. “Maybe your reputation’s getting around.”

Laurel has to laugh slightly at that. “You think?”

Jo laughs too. “Dr. Anderson probably realized it was best just to get things over with, rather than let the famous Laurel Lance keep digging.”

“Where he could set the conditions of the meeting too,” Laurel points out with a grin. She doesn’t have any pretenses about being a famous lawyer – she works for _CNRI_ , only one of many – but she appreciates her best friend’s humor. And she could be partially right, at least. Maybe Dr. Anderson had just decided to stop her in her tracks, on his own terms.

They’re going to have to be prepared for anything, including subtle threats, when they finally do meet him. In the meantime…

“You sure I can’t convince you to come to the fundraiser tonight?” she asks Jo, and the conversation moves to other things. They’ve got a couple weeks to plan, and the weekends are supposed to be their time off. Continuing their conversation can wait until Monday.

* * *

* * *

_October 12, 2013, evening:_

In a suit and tie for perhaps the first time in his life, Roy looks incredibly uncomfortable, fidgeting and glancing around as if expecting he’s going to get kicked out as soon as anyone spots him. Thea swats at his hand as he reaches up to adjust his tie again.

“Stop that,” she hisses. She’s been wanting to see him in a full suit for a while now, but his nerves ruin the picture he cuts in the brightly lit ballroom. (Mostly. He’s still stunning. Thea’s half tempted to just let him lose the tie, maybe undo a button or two… But no. That can wait.)

He scowls at her, somehow managing to slouch and wrinkle the shoulders of the suit jacket. “I don’t know why you dragged me to this thing.”

“You’re here as my date,” Thea says. “If you’d rather I find someone else…”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Thea’s mostly joking but Roy’s still insecure about his ability to fit into her life – into the kind of life he’d never dreamed he’d have. Fundraisers like this aren’t the kind of event he’s ever been too and definitely not something he would usually be invited to. Of all the events Oliver has put together in the last few months, this one is by far the fanciest.

She and her brother are trying to present more of a united front these days, trying to make up for their mother’s attempt to level the Glades, trying to be better people – trying to be involved in each other’s lives again. When Oliver had suggested this fundraiser Thea hadn’t been about to turn him down, and, however uncomfortable Roy is with her lavish lifestyle, it had felt wrong to exclude her boyfriend.

His scowl deepens as he glances away, fidgeting with his sleeves again now that she’s stopped him from tugging at his tie. At least she hadn’t given him cufflinks. _Baby steps_ , Thea tells herself. _He’s just not used to this_.

“I didn’t mean it,” she says quickly, reaching for his hand and entwining her fingers in his own. He stills somewhat as he accepts the contact. “I know this isn’t your thing. It’s not even really my thing.” Her dress is glittering and comfortable on her body – familiar at least – and the opulence is nothing new, but the political maneuvering and polite conversation, she’s starting to learn, is not her thing. She can fake a smile with the best of them but after Moira Queen’s admission of guilt she no longer finds herself willing to do so. Her mother had hidden so much. Thea’s not going to be that kind of woman.

(It’s not that she isn’t good at this sort of subtle manipulation of words and thinly veiled comments. It’s that she worries she might be _too_ good. She doesn’t want to turn into her mother’s daughter, no matter that she’s finally admitted she still wants Moira in her life.)

“We’re doing this for Oliver, and for Star City,” she reminds Roy. “Including the Glades.”

Roy shifts on his feet but mostly stills, even straightening slightly, hand tight in hers. He can face half a dozen thugs in an alley with a straight back but put him in front of a few millionaires… “No offense, but your brother’s not exactly a model citizen,” he bites back grumpily.

A grin stretches across Thea’s face. “Maybe not, but don’t you want to get on his good side?” Oliver might not be the typical movie-cliché protective older brother, challenging Roy to defend her honor or any shit like that, but his opinion does matter to her. And to Roy, she hopes.

“I could take him.”

Thea laughs, squeezing Roy’s hand. That would be a sight to see. Thea’s not sure if Oliver’s ever thrown a punch in his life. Not a proper one, when he wasn’t drunk at least. (She uncomfortably ignores all thoughts of his scars, and whatever happened to him while he was gone.) “Maybe not here,” she suggests, amusement in her tone.

Roy grins faintly back at her, pleased with himself. Thea tugs at his hand. Now that he’s feeling more comfortable…

“C’mon,” she says. “We’ll leave in an hour or two, but before then let me show you my world.”

Roy’s grin shifts to a grimace again, but he follows along beside her.

* * *

The venue is decked out in all the glittering opulence Laurel would expect from a Queen fundraiser, flashy and expensive, brightly lit and sparkling, but her mind isn’t paying attention to the décor. The room is filled with Star City’s most politically relevant people – the mayor, for one – but also its richest. (And in today’s world, who says that those two categories aren’t one and the same?) With every face that she recognizes, that she connects with a member of the List she and Jo have been tirelessly researching, she grows tenser and tenser.

The room isn’t exactly filled with them, and there’s a crowd murmuring polite conversation all around her, moving and flowing and changing shape in the way only a crowd of living beings can, but then Laurel spots a face in a momentary part between two groups, or passing by between others, or grabbing a glass of champagne or an appetizer off of a passing tray.

There’s Christine Alpert, owner of a local restaurant chain and rumored to be big on cutting corners and ignoring worker safety concerns. There’s Howard Munson, real estate mogul who buys up properties in the Glades and sells them cheap to his friends, all on top of his regular business of catering to Star City’s one percent. And there, in the corner, John Deleon – a man CNRI had tried to sue about three years back on behalf of a bereaved widow but who had gotten out of it with a measly one hundred-thousand-dollar settlement – is deep in conversation with Vance Porter – one half of a brother-brother team that rules a food truck empire rumored to bribe the health inspectors.

“Everything alright?”

Laurel turns to the man at her side, throwing on a grin that melts from fake to sincere as she sees his face. “Yeah,” she tells Tommy, “just… never really got used to this sort of thing, I guess.” Laurel doesn’t come from a rich family, but her association with the Queens and Merlyns since childhood means she’s been to many of these sorts of events over the years.

Tommy grins at her, placing a hand on the small of her back that she’s quick to lean into. “Well you pull if off stunningly,” he tells her, not for the first time that night.

Looking at her boyfriend, incredibly stunning himself in a fitted suit, part of Laurel yearns to just ditch the fundraiser then and there and find a bathroom like she’s a teenager again. She laughs lightly and gives Tommy a quick kiss on the cheek instead. “So do you,” she tells him.

He turns into her kiss to take it on the lips. Despite what her body may want from her, they turn back into the crowd and continue to mingle politely, saying hello to the people they know – Tommy more than Laurel, though she notices the way they size him up now, son of the man who’d intended to level the Glades, and whose notebook might just contain their names. Of the few people Laurel already knows, from her childhood association with Oliver and Tommy, none of them are thankfully on the List.

Her newfound ability to pick out the members of the List from the crowd (and when did she start capitalizing it, even in her own brain?) fades somewhat when she and Tommy bump into Oliver. The couple Oliver’s currently talking to aren’t members of the List – or, at least, Laurel hasn’t come across their names yet (it’s a long list) – and they smile politely, greet her and Tommy – “Regina and Marco Urbina, pleasure to meet you,” – and move on.

That leaves the three old friends alone for a moment, or as alone as you can be at an event like this, and the sight of Oliver reminds Laurel why they’re here. It’s not to investigate those on the List. It’s to help the city. She can’t make much of a donation herself, not on her salary, but Tommy’s already given a generous sum in both their names.

“Hey,” she says warmly. Maybe there had been some lingering feelings between her and Oliver, once, and maybe they’re still there somewhat, but the months with Tommy have mostly washed those away. Oliver and Tommy are best friends, have been best friends their entire lives. They’ve been through some rough patches since Oliver came home, but they’re still best friends. Tommy splits his time these days between Verdant and his clinic, between her and Oliver. He and Oliver talk at the club, presumably, especially now that Queen Consolidated is largely settled (or, at least, out of Oliver’s hands), and sometimes the two of them go out to breakfast or lunch together. Laurel’s even joined them once or twice. (Tommy’s dinners though, are all hers, even if he still can’t cook.)

Any lingering resentment has mostly been washed away too, with her old feelings. But that doesn’t change the fact that Laurel knows a relationship with Oliver would never last, even if Tommy wasn’t somehow a factor. Whether she blames him any more or not (she thinks she doesn’t), she can’t spend too long thinking about him without remembering her sister.

Oliver smiles back, returning the greeting easily, but Tommy is much more subdued and hesitant.

Laurel glances between the two of them with a small frown. Are they fighting again? She hadn’t thought so.

“How’s Queen Consolidated?” she asks in search of a neutral topic, unaware of what’s brought tension to Tommy’s stance. She’d spotted the new CEO – Ed Carlin – earlier and knows for a fact that he’s not on the List. Thank goodness. Otherwise she might have had to share her association with the Green Arrow with Oliver, just to warn him away from letting such a man run his company. ( _Maybe that’s what Tommy’s uncomfortable with_ , Laurel thinks idly. The secret that she and him are keeping from their friends. Laurel hopes that’s it and nothing more.)

“Good,” Oliver says honestly. “Carlin seems like a great guy, eager to get to work. He’ll be good for the city. How’s CNRI?”

“Powering through.” Laurel turns to Tommy, expecting him to chime in anytime – to have already said _something_ in greeting – but he doesn’t, and for a moment awkward silence hovers between the three of them. She’d thought they’d finally moved past this. Apparently, she’d been wrong. “Did Thea make it?” she asks in the silence.

Oliver nods, glancing around, and gestures vaguely. “She even managed to drag Roy along,” he says with a small grin.

Laurel’s smile widens despite the previous tension. She’s met Roy a few times. She can’t picture the young man in a suit and tie. Or even just attending an event like this. “That must have been a sight.”

The words are enough to get a small chuckle out of Oliver, a rare treat these days. “You have no idea.”

And still Tommy shifts awkwardly at her side.

Laurel glances between her two friends again, follows Tommy’s gaze, and realizes that Oliver’s bodyguard is hovering slightly in the background, pointedly avoiding Tommy’s eyes. That’s weird too, because since she’s met John Diggle Oliver hasn’t once hesitated to include him.

She frowns at Oliver, resolving to speak to Tommy later. For now… “Everything alright?” she asks.

Oliver gives her a look and a soft frown that says _‘why wouldn’t it be?’_ which, either he’s completely oblivious to the tension between him, Diggle, and Tommy, or he’s deliberately keeping it from her.

_Maybe it’s personal,_ Laurel tells herself. She knows she can be a bit pushy at times, knows that people are entitled to their privacy, but that doesn’t stop her from wondering what’s going on. Her resolve to talk to Tommy later, in private, strengthens. _Maybe Oliver_ is _just oblivious,_ she tries to convince herself.

But she knows Oliver’s fooled her in the past – not just when he’d run off with Sara but also when he’d come back and kept the truth about what happened on the island, how he got his scars, to himself – and even as he shrugs off her concerns, thanks them for coming, and wanders back into the crowd, she can’t help but wonder if he’s doing it again.

Between Oliver and Tommy and the List (and the meeting with Dr. Anderson that she and Jo had arranged only just that morning), Laurel’s mind doesn’t focus much on the actual fundraising that night.

* * *

Star City is a pile of corruption and decadence and gluttony. He sees it in every face he passes by, feels it in every hand he shakes, hears it in every greeting he’s given. The people he mingles with didn’t grow up in the Glades, haven’t known the scourge of poverty and the fear of hatred. They’ve never had to scrape for their next meal or fight for their lives.

That much is obvious in every facet around him, from the clothing more expensive than a year’s rent for some people to the crystal glasses of champagne passing from tray to hand and back again. The waitresses and waiters pass by, unnoticed as anything more than floating trays of expensive delights. The effort that went into setting up the ballroom is ignored alongside the thought that someone will have to clean up after them when they’re done.

The people in this room with him are shining examples of everything wrong with Star City. In the aftermath of the aborted earthquake, they are the ones who have abandoned their poorest.

No. That’s wrong. They’d never paid attention before either. The earthquake had been a brief flash of light in the distance, a lone flame that had drawn their attention long enough for some of them to try and help put it out, but they’d flitted away quickly enough afterward, with no regard for the smoldering ruins left behind – or the fact that they’d been ruins already beforehand.

Sebastian refuses to do the same. He walks among Star City’s richest and most famous, among its mayor and deputy mayor and other politicians. Unlike them, he will not forget the Glades. (Unlike them, he’s never forgotten the Glades.) Unlike them, he wants to fix his city, to help his people.

But they’re not his target tonight, and there are more people than just them who’ve caught his eye.

This farce of a fundraiser is meant to support the various utilities in Star City, hosted by Oliver Queen. It makes sense, in that regard, that the wealthiest and most powerful people in the city are in attendance. But there’s more than just the rich of Star City present, and that makes Sebastian curious. He’s there, of course, a mere alderman from the Glades, but there are others too. Queen has invited the heads of the water and sewage department, the electrical department, even the parks and rec manager. There’s a woman Sebastian recognizes as dean of Star City University, another he knows owns a local construction crew that had managed much of the cleanup after the destruction in the Glades.

The head of CNRI is there and even the manager of Star City’s airport. Working class, most of them, or at least, people who came from that background. There are even other politicians like Sebastian who normally wouldn’t be high enough up to merit such an invite. Sebastian can’t help but be curious as to Queen’s motives.

He’s never thought much of the playboy before – throwing a few fundraisers here and there is not nearly enough to reform a man like Queen, no matter what he might have gone through – but Wilson’s interested in him so Sebastian is too, if only because he’s been ordered to be. Queen is arrogant and selfish and careless but there’s just enough different about him that Sebastian wonders if a shove in the right direction might be all the idiot needs. He wanders toward the man, one of his two targets to scope out tonight, and manages to connect with him about an hour into the night as he talks to the mayor.

Perfect timing. Adam Altman is Sebastian’s other target. He’s lazy and inept but, so far as he can tell, not really corrupt in the taking-bribes-and-ignoring-laws sense of the word. Why bother to bribe someone who’s completely unaware of the wrongdoing in his city? Star City can do better ( _will do better,_ he vows) but it could also do worse.

Sebastian throws on a smile and greets him and Queen politely and warmly without meaning an ounce of it, as only a politician can do. (He’s intrigued by Queen, he’ll admit, but that doesn’t mean he feels any _warmth_ for the man.)

“Alderman Blood,” Altman says, polite enough, “have you met Mr. Queen yet?”

Queen laughs slightly before Sebastian can say anything, holding out his hand. “Please, Mr. Queen was my father. Call me Oliver.”

“Oliver,” Sebastian returns obediently, smiling. “Call me Sebastian.”

“We were just talking about the latest incident in the Glades,” the mayor interjects, preventing any further small talk. “Mr. Queen – Oliver – was just saying how he wished he could do more.”

Sebastian turns, putting on an expression of interest. “Oh?” he asks. “You heard about the weapons that have been showing up on our city’s streets?” Queen’s more connected than he thought – or at least, paying more attention than Sebastian would have given him credit for – if that’s the case. Maybe there’s something to Wilson’s interest in the man after all.

Queen shrugs nonchalantly, as though military grade weapons in the Glades are no big deal. “Rumors,” he says. “Enough to know this city needs help. I’ve been trying to do more…”

“And this fundraiser is a great way to start,” Mayor Altman cuts in enthusiastically.

Sebastian blinks and takes great pains to ensure that none of his emotions show on his face. Idiots, the both of them. If Queen can be so uncaring about automatic weapons on the streets of Star City then he’s not as intriguing as Sebastian had just thought him to be. And if Mayor Altman thinks that admitting the city needs a fundraiser to properly take care of its utilities – and therefore does not have the funds to properly manage things themselves – is a good idea then he’s even more of a moron than Sebastian thought he was.

Fitting into the role of a politician determined to run for mayor when the election comes up next year – Sebastian doesn’t intend to wait that long, but he can’t let on to _that_ part of the plan just yet – he gives a conciliatory smile.

“A good way to start,” he agrees. “But one fundraiser thrown by the idle rich isn’t nearly enough to fix what ails this city.” There. See how they take that.

Queen flashes him a blinding smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Oh, I agree. That’s why I wanted to give Queen Consolidated a fresh start, bring in someone from outside the city.”

Queen Consolidated is _part_ of what ails the city. It’s going to crash and burn. But that’s not Sebastian’s part of the plan. His plan is to be the politician and recruit soldiers for Wilson’s (and his) army. He keeps his expression politely interested and glances over to see how the mayor took his statement.

* * *

Trying to keep the fragile peace that has settled between the three of them since his and Felicity’s return, John hangs back as the night goes on, focusing more on being a bodyguard than a friend. It’s what he’s been doing for the past month, and he isn’t sure how Oliver will react if he simply shifts back to the way they’d been before the argument. Truthfully, he isn’t sure how to make that shift.

He and Felicity both have apologized but they were also _right_ , even if they’d gone about things wrong. Oliver on the other hand, hasn’t apologized, and John knows he won’t. Oliver doesn’t regret his actions.

_Well,_ John’s thoughts whisper to him, _he_ had _. Before the argument. Just not since then._ _Doesn’t that count?_

His gut churns and he pushes such thoughts aside, unwilling to dwell. In the month he’s stepped away, John has honestly missed helping Oliver. Every mention of the vigilante in the news had had him riveted, every criminal arrested had had him wondering if Oliver had been involved, in one way or another. Every crime he’d seen go unpunished had had him itching to tell Oliver, reflexively moving to add it to their logs before realizing he wasn’t in the foundry. He’d been part of the reason Oliver had shifted away from the List in the first place, he’d been the one to bring the Royal Flush Gang to the Arrow’s attention.

He wants to go back to that. And besides, Oliver is his friend now, has been his friend for months. John doesn’t always agree with his actions, but he can’t believe he was willing to let his friend go out onto the streets without someone watching over him. He’d fooled himself into thinking that Oliver wasn’t alone, that Sara had been with him – and that was true, in a way – but he also knew better than to think that Sara had been with him every night. Besides, who was to say that Sara wasn’t even more reckless than Oliver?

So John’ll keep shadowing Oliver as a bodyguard, but he’ll pay a bit more attention now than he has the past month during his day job and follow after him when he leaves the event and shifts his focus toward an entirely different sort of night life. He’ll be there for him every night he wants to hit the streets. It’s only right.

“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” Oliver says, not even two hours into the fundraiser that night. He claps John on the shoulder as he walks past, having just finished a conversation with the mayor and an alderman from the Glades.

It’s friendlier than he’s been the past month, with the two of them barely talking, and John nods. Not as friendly as they had been before that, but he’ll gladly take it. “Alright,” he agrees. They weave through the crowd together, Oliver pausing here and there to exchange greetings as John follows behind his client, his friend. His brother in arms, and he’s still chiding himself for forgetting that.

He waits aimlessly, patiently, at the edge of the hallway that leads to the restrooms, trying to make sure his mind doesn’t dwell on all his mistakes, or turn the other direction and blame Oliver. It’s only after a few minutes have passed that John remembers how he and Oliver had first started out, how easily Oliver could slip a tail. He thinks back to the hour or so of mingling in the thick crowd, remembers the rising tension in Oliver’s body, the way his gaze had become sharp and focused, the way his fingers had rubbed together at his side.

Crap. He’d thought they’d moved past this. He glances down the hall, tense with anger and disappointment that’s aimed more at himself than at Oliver. He should have known better. A month ago, when he wasn’t avoiding Oliver, he would have. Would have recognized the signs long before they’d gotten this bad.

He thinks about checking the bathroom but it’s pointless really. Oliver’s long gone.

* * *

Oliver hadn’t intended to ditch Diggle. His thought process hadn’t been considering leaving his bodyguard behind. He’d just been talking to person after person, meaningless small talk and pointless – and sometimes false – well wishes over and over. Few people in the room had actually seemed to care, and those that did didn’t understand why Oliver Queen cared. Thea had slipped out a few minutes before him, heading for her shift at Verdant and taking Roy with her. Laurel and Tommy are still there, but Tommy’s still on edge about all the secrets Oliver is still keeping from him and having to keep those secrets he does know from his girlfriend.

It had all become too much. He hadn’t thought to himself _I’m going to ditch my bodyguard and hit the streets,_ he’d just done it. He could have taken Diggle with him, could have asked him to be his backup, but that thought hadn’t occurred to him either.

He wants to be alone right now, and so he is.

In the darkness of Star City’s night, alone and shadowed by his surroundings, Oliver takes the time to think – about trust and anger and selflessness and monsters.

Some of the people in his life – Roy, Quentin – have seen nothing but the slightly damaged but still arrogant and carefree exterior he projects as Oliver Queen these days. Others – his mother, Laurel, Thea, Walter – have seen a bit more of the damage, a bit more of the anger within him and his inability to talk about the island. Tommy’s seen his scars, met him as the Green Arrow, knows what he’s capable of and lives with the knowledge of the monster within his former best friend.

But Diggle and Felicity… They’ve peeled back layer after layer, pulled his monster from the shadows Oliver keeps him in and taken a good look. They’ve seen him scars. They’ve seen him train. They’ve seen him fight.

They’ve seen him kill.

They’ve seen the way he won’t talk about the island and probably heard the most about his time away out of everyone he knows (except for now, Sara, and people from his time away, like Amanda Waller).

Roy and Quentin know nothing about who he is now, no matter what Quentin’s accused him of. Laurel and Thea don’t either, though they know well enough that he’s not who he used to be. Tommy’s seen the monster from a distance and run from it. Sara’s met his monster and lets hers run free beside his.

Diggle and Felicity have met his monster too. Unlike Sara, they don’t have monsters of their own. Unlike Sara, they actually try to tame the monster. They’re aware of the violence in Oliver’s soul, and they might not like it, but they don’t run. They encourage him to do better, to be better.

Or at least, they had. Can he blame them for leaving when the monster finally got to be too much? When the lies and the secrets and the violence threatened to overwhelm them?

He knows it’s a lot. He thought they’d be able to handle it, thought they’d adjusted to his goals, even if they occasionally attempted to shift his methods. He’d forgotten that everyone has their limits, even the two of them. How can he really be surprised that this thing he’s become is too much even for them?

He can’t.

He’s not going back on his decision, he’ll stand by his choice to keep Sara’s secret from her friends and family, but can he really blame Felicity and Diggle for disagreeing with him when he doesn’t even approve of Sara’s decision himself?

Does it even matter? That’s not really the question, and it’s not really what he needs to consider. Diggle and Felicity have both proven themselves willing to live with the monster inside him, and to stand up to him when they think he’s wrong (it’s the secrets that rub them the wrong way). They’ve also proven themselves to be able and eager protectors of Star City.

The question isn’t whether or not they agree with each other, though that will certainly help them function as a team if they do. The question instead is, does he trust them to watch his back? Does he trust them to point him in the right direction and to give him the relevant intel? Does he trust them not to spill _his_ secret?

And Oliver knows, as he’s known since the second he saw them in the foundry basement once more, that the answer to those questions are _yes_.

They’re not the friends they once were, perhaps. They don’t like the way he’s handling certain things – Alexa Lane and Sara Lance, in particular. They’re not as comfortable around each other. They might even still be thinking about telling the Lance’s about Sara’s survival. But they all still care about the people of Star City.

That’s enough for him.

That’ll have to be enough for him.

His frustration at their reactions is gone, for the same reason that he forgave his mom for shooting him (she’d had every right to protect herself), forgives Quentin Lance for hating Oliver Queen (he’d killed his youngest daughter), understands Laurel’s fear of the Green Arrow and wariness around Oliver Queen (after his shows of violence in the hood and his betrayals and lies outside of it, how could he not?), and understands Tommy’s decision to stay away from the lies and violence (Tommy is the most open and honest person Oliver knows – it would be wrong of him to drag his best friend down with him). He forgives all of this for the same reason: every reaction is his fault.

All of the fear and pain and suffering his friends and family have gone through since he’s returned is because of him. Even the good he’s done – saving the Glades, stopping the Undertaking – could have been accomplished by Superman alone.

For the briefest of moments, Oliver contemplates leaving. Throwing away his responsibilities as Oliver Queen, his promise to his father, his need to make up for the wrongs he’s committed, and following Sara into the unknown. There’d been a time when he’d thought he’d been too damaged to return home. Eventually he’d overcome that line of thinking, but maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he hadn’t been ready.

But leaving isn’t really an option. There’s Thea and Roy and Verdant. There’s Walter and Queen Consolidated. There’s the List and the criminals of the Glades and the safety of Star City.

Maybe he isn’t needed to treat the corruption that still runs through the city, especially now that the police and media and Laurel have copies of the List too. Maybe he doesn’t know how to act properly around his friends and family. But he’s found solace in being in their lives again and in working to fix the city he’d grown up in – he’s found solace in treating the symptoms of Star City’s disease. And he’s not the type to give up once he’s made a commitment.

The Undertaking was thwarted – by him, by Felicity and Diggle, by Tommy, by Superman and his mother and Quentin – but corruption still runs rampant. He hasn’t finished fulfilling his father’s last request. He’s nowhere near to making up for all the harm he’s done. (Of course, he’ll never be done with that, never be able to wash the blood from his hands, but he can do something about it for as long as he still draws breath.)

As Oliver moves from rooftop to rooftop that night, alone and silent and steady, a monster in the shadows terrorizing the other monsters of the city, he acknowledges to himself that he’s willing to be a team again. The city needs all the help it can get.

But he’s not quite sure yet if that means letting Felicity and Diggle back into his life.

* * *

* * *

_October 13, 2013, early morning:_

It’s five in the morning, the sun not yet risen, and Thea leans back slightly from where she sits and muses on how much her life has changed in the last year.

She’s sitting on the floor of an empty night club she now works at – and that her brother back from the dead and his best friend own – with her boyfriend on one side – an ex-thief from the Glades who feeds information to Star City’s hooded vigilante with a bow and arrows and a grudge against the corrupt rich – and Sin forming the third point to their little triangle – a homeless woman who despises everything that she thinks Thea stands for and knows Star City’s other, and newest vigilante.

(If she’d been in such a situation last year…)

“Nice kingdom,” Sin had said scornfully as they’d sat down, but there’d been an uncertainty in her eyes that had undermined her rudeness.

The Thea of only a few months ago would never have noticed it, but this Thea is the daughter of a would-be mass murderer, a rehabilitated drug dealer, a hard worker. (The Thea of a year ago wouldn’t have been caught dead working at a place like Verdant, never mind sitting down with the two people in front of her after her shift. She knows this and hates it, can’t believe she used to be the woman she was.)

“Not mine yet,” she’d snarked right back though, accepting the coffee Roy had handed her.

Now she inhales the scent of the warm liquid in her hands, thriving off the pleasant aroma and the companionship of her two friends, however unlikely of friends they might be. She’s still angry with Roy for not yet taking the bouncer job at Verdant – though he continually assures her he’s thinking about it – but there’s something fragile in the air between him and Sin that makes her think now isn’t the time for that conversation.

(Especially because only she and Roy had been planning to hang out this morning, and then Roy had shown up with Sin. She’s not exactly complaining – she hadn’t been planning anything after her shift that would require privacy – but Sin isn’t her biggest fan. Which means she definitely doesn’t know why Sin is here.)

Although…

“You know,” Thea says, breaking the silence between them, “you don’t have to be twenty-one to serve alcohol.” She certainly isn’t.

Sin starts, eyes widening even as she frowns. “What?”

Thea rolls her own eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all from Roy – you don’t want charity. This isn’t about that.”

Sin scoffs, glancing over at Roy before turning back to Thea. “Yeah, Princess?” she asks skeptically. “What is it about then?”

“It’s about…” Thea shakes her head. “Verdant could use some new employees. One of the bartender’s taking maternity leave in a few weeks and Tommy’s said they have trouble keeping bouncers. It’s about helping my friends. It’s about getting the chance to work _with_ my friends – isn’t that something teenagers do? Get jobs together, enter the world at the same time?”

When Sin snorts in response, Roy follows suit, though his own sound is kinder and less abrasive.

“I wouldn’t know,” the other woman says.

“Neither would I,” Thea answers honestly. They’re from opposite ends of a spectrum but nobody in their small circle (triangle) has grown up knowing what normal is, if for vastly different reasons. “You’re here anyway,” she continues. “Why not get paid?”

Sin shakes her head, looking away as her grip tightens on the cardboard coffee cup in her own hand, but while she doesn’t say yes, she doesn’t say no either.

Thea’s earlier thoughts were right, there’s something different about today, something’s changed. Except she doesn’t know how to ask. She and Sin aren’t exactly close – Sin hates her for what she was born into, Thea dislikes Sin for her acerbic attitude, and Roy’s the only reason they even know each other – so she doesn’t feel like she can just come out and ask.

Maybe a few months ago she would have, but as Thea seems to be constantly realizing, a lot has changed in only a few months.

To her surprise though, it’s Roy who speaks next, and what comes out of his mouth is even more of a shock.

“I’ll take the job,” he blurts out, and even he looks surprised at his own words. “The bouncer job,” he clarifies, nervous but resolute. “I’ll take it.” He isn’t looking at Thea, he’s staring at Sin, almost like his words are a dare.

Sin swears at him, quickly standing and striding away toward the exit.

Roy starts again, moving as if to go after her, but Thea stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Maybe I should handle this,” she offers. For once, the person Sin’s angriest with doesn’t seem to be her.

Roy hesitates, looking uncertain, then nods once. Thea stands quickly, hurrying after the other woman.

She doesn’t catch Sin until they exit through the dark hallway into the back of Verdant, grabbing for the other woman’s arm then quickly letting go when Sin spins around, fury on her face. There are tears in her eyes too. Thea hadn’t been expecting that.

“Fuck you too!” Sin spits at her. “What do you want?”

Thea hesitates. “Are you alright?” she finds herself asking softly.

“I’m fine.” Sin’s words are as biting and fierce as the cold morning wind on Thea’s face. Verdant’s parking lot is well lit, for the Glades, but there are still shadows across the other woman’s face as she defiantly ignores the moisture dripping down her cheeks. “I’m always fine.”

Does Thea know Sin well enough to push her, to ask again? Has that ever stopped her before? It turns out it doesn’t matter in the end. Thea hesitates a moment too long and Sin spins again, stalking away into the early morning. She doesn’t look back even when Thea shouts after her.

Confused as to what’s going on with her maybe-friend, Thea stands motionless just beyond the doorway, watching Sin leave. Her body seems to lean forward, as if considering running after her, but she doesn’t move. She’s seen Sin angry before, biting out hateful comments – sometimes directed at Thea – but she’s never really seen her this emotional. She’s certainly never seen her cry. (But then, Sin is always ready to run, always ready to leave any space Thea’s ever seen her in. Is it really that surprising that she’d fled?)

Eventually, as Sin’s form disappears around a corner, Thea’s mind tells her that it’s too late to go after her. The turmoil in her brain settles somewhat, tinged with regret. Some part of her thinks she should have gone after Sin. Putting it from her mind, she heads back into Verdant.

Roy’s worried expression greets Thea as she re-enters the building, her boyfriend standing just inside the door with an anxious expression on his face and worry in his eyes. He’s turned the hallway light on and his grip on his coffee cup is starting to crumple the now-empty cardboard. He opens his mouth, but Thea speaks over him.

She doesn’t know what’s wrong with Sin, doesn’t know if she can do anything about it, but that’s not the only thing on her mind at the moment.

“Did you mean it?” she asks quickly.

Roy blinks but she can see his brain easily shifting gears. He hesitates, swallows, then nods, looking apprehensive. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll take the job.”

Thea relaxes, stepping forward and leaning into him, soaking in the warm comfort of his arm around her and her head tucked under his. Her own coffee cup is still warm in her hand – she’d never set it down, even to chase after Sin. She takes another sip absentmindedly. “Do you know what’s up with Sin?” she asks, pretty sure she already knows the answer to that.

Roy tenses minutely, which is a yes.

She pulls her head back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Are you going to tell me?” she asks.

Once, she would have just asked, would have demanded, would have _needed_ to know. Now, she can’t stop reminding herself how much times have changed – how much _she_ has changed. Roy and Sin come from a completely different world than her and though Thea has always known that from the moment she’d first knocked on Roy’s door, seeing her boyfriend around Sin has really solidified that realization in her mind.

There are things about his life that Roy doesn’t want to share with her – not secrets about the Arrow or his attempts to be a better man, but little things about the way he lives, things that Sin understands. There are things that Thea doesn’t particularly feel like sharing either, now that she’s starting to become aware of how privileged she was raised.

“Yes,” Roy says simply.

Thea waits – perhaps not patiently, fingers clenching and unclenching around her cup, gaze fluttering around the slim hallway, but she waits for him to be ready, for him to speak.

After a tense moment, he does.

“She left,” he says. “The other vigilante.”

Thea tenses too. This is more talk about the Green Arrow, about the dangerous life she wants Roy to stay away from but knows he won’t. Her first thought is _good_ , vindictive and pleased, and she swallows that, already regretting it.

At first, she hadn’t liked the idea of Sin hanging out with the female vigilante. She’d seemed no less dangerous than the Green Arrow and that’s not the kind of life Thea can understand living. But Sin had shared stories of her friend, or the ways she helped other women in need, and Thea has come around somewhat in regard to the Green Arrow, appreciating what he does for the city.

She still thinks the vigilantes are dangerous to be around, but not that they would intentionally put Roy or Sin – or any other innocent, in a manner of speaking – in danger. And Sin had had no one else to turn to, from the sound of it. (Though she hasn’t yet told Thea that she’s homeless, or why she’s homeless, Thea has at least gleaned that Sin doesn’t always have a roof over her head.)

The female vigilante had given Sin a place to stay during the nights, provided a watchful eye to protect her. Sin had never looked up to her the way Roy idolizes the Green Arrow (who he sees as having not just saved his life but also his soul – his motivation to live, his optimism, his belief in the world) but she’d owed her a lot, and considered her a friend.

So _good_ as a reaction is not Thea’s best. But she doesn’t know what to say instead. It’s _not_ good that Sin’s friend has left her. And maybe it’s not even good that the city now has one less protector. But the woman was a _vigilante_. Thea can’t exactly say she’s surprised either.

“That’s… that’s gotta be hard for her,” she ends up saying, after a moment.

Roy shifts slightly around her. “Yeah,” he says blankly, tone making it clear just how much of an understatement he thinks it is.

Thea tenses. “Have you…?” but she can’t bring herself to ask.

Roy tenses too. “Have I what?” he asks, defensive.

Thea pulls back from her boyfriend, separating from the arm around her shoulder and taking a step back.

“Have you seen him lately?”

He glances away, grits his teeth. “No.”

She can’t tell if he’s frustrated by his answer or the fact that she’s asking.

“Roy…”

“What?! I thought we agreed –”

“That you weren’t going to do anything that could get you killed!”

“And who says I have been?”

“You didn’t have to say anything.”

“I just want to help this city! The way he does!”

“The way he does it could get you killed!”

“So what!” Roy freezes the second after the words leave his mouth and Thea can tell instantly that he doesn’t mean it, not that way, but her brain still stutters, still rebels against the very thought of losing Roy.

She takes a careful step backward. “So what?” she asks, low and dangerous.

Roy knows exactly where he went wrong. “I didn’t mean that Thea, you know that.”

The worst part is, she does. Her heart aches at the thought but she knows Roy didn’t mean _‘So what if I die?’_ What he’d meant instead was: _‘So what if it’s dangerous? So what if I get hurt? It’ll be worth it.’_

She’s not sure that’s any better.

Her shoulders are stiff, her throat tight. “Do I?” she asks.

Roy shakes his head, takes a desperate step forward. “Thea…”

“You might not care what happens to you Roy, but I do! You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I can help him, Thea, I can help the people like he does. People like Sin. Like Robby. Like he saved me.”

Roy, tied up in a train car, his near-death experience aired live for the city to see – and his admission that he didn’t deserve to be saved. Sin, saved from the unspeakable by the other vigilante. Robby, Roy’s sixteen-year-old neighbor, shot when he’d refused to join one of the local gangs. Thea can’t deny that the Green Arrow helps the people of Star City, of the Glades. She can’t argue against Roy’s need to do something, to help people. She’s still trying to figure that out herself, after all.

“Can’t you, can’t you do something else? Anything else?” she asks, voice cracking. “I can’t lose you Roy.”

“You won’t, Thea, I –”

She cuts him off. “Stop saying you promise.” She’s heard it enough in her life. “You can’t guarantee something like that!” She thinks of Oliver and her father, going away on a boat trip and never coming back. Of Walter, there one day and gone the next. Things happen. She can’t let them happen to Roy.

Roy pauses and takes a deep breath. When he steps toward her, she lets him take her hand, relishing in the feeling of her fingers in his even as some part of her is angry enough to still want to pull away.

“I haven’t been hitting the streets,” he says, voice low and serious enough to make his words a promise anyway, “but I’m not going to stop helping him.”

Thea’s hand tightens on Roy’s even as her shoulders lean away. “I’m tired of arguing about this,” she admits.

Roy leans in. “Me too. But…”

She grimaces. She knows. “Roy, you have to be careful.”

“Always.”

It’ll have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this one's a long one. Thanks again to everyone reading this fic, and a big thanks to my commenters who ensure me that people are actually reading this! 
> 
> Chapter 17: Settling In, will be up in a week, on Oct. 18th.


	17. Settling In

 

_October 18, 2013, night:_

By now – and this is not something that Felicity had ever considered being a potential future for her before she’d befriended Oliver Queen, not something she enjoys thinking about – Felicity can recognize the scent of blood almost instantly. She still has nightmares, every now and again, from the night he’d been shot, waking up thinking she’s covered in his blood. She’d washed her hands probably a hundred times that week, until finally time – and seeing Oliver up and walking – had her feeling clean again. Though Verdant is loud and smells of alcohol and crowds almost constantly, the lair beneath it is insulated enough that most of the scents and sounds don’t reach them.

Which enables it to have its own scent entirely, a mixture of sweat and metal and, sometimes, blood. Felicity smells it tonight when she enters – and isn’t that a welcome back present – looks for Oliver, and immediately looks away again.

He’s got a cloth to his side and a determined look on his face as he stands next to the operating table, kit set out beside him.

“You already went out?” she blurts out in surprise, the first thing her mind jumps to, even as she averts her eyes. It’s only just after nine, the sun having barely finished setting completely. Is he going out in the daylight hours now? How much has changed in the month she and Digg have been gone?

Oliver grunts a negative, focused on what he’s doing. Or maybe just in one of his not-very-talkative-today moods. “Old injury,” he says shortly.

Felicity feels a pang in her heart at the words, though she’s pretty sure he’s not saying it to shove her and Digg’s actions in her face. He’s not saying he wouldn’t have been injured if they’d been there. He’s just laying out the facts. That doesn’t mean she’s not thinking it. She hadn’t even known he’d been injured at all. She doesn’t want to think about how many hits he might have taken while she and Digg were gone.

Secrets or not, she’d let herself forget how dangerous Oliver’s chosen job was.

Swallowed up by her guilt, Felicity chances another glance and gets a better look at what he’s doing, promptly looking away again as she swallows down nausea. Blood she has, unfortunately, somewhat adjusted to over the months, but Oliver is _taking out his own stitches_.

She fidgets in place, torn between wanting to help (needing to help him in some way) and desperately not wanting to look. “Shouldn’t you, you know, get a doctor to do that? Or Digg? Or somebody other than you? That can’t be healthy and the angle’s not –” She cuts herself off, swallows again. “Shouldn’t you wait for Digg?”

“Almost done,” Oliver responds, which isn’t an answer but is pretty much par for the course with him.

Par for the course. As if Felicity’s ever played a game of golf in her life. Oh great, now her thoughts are rambling too. She swallows yet again and decides not to argue the point. The tension has been thick enough in the foundry the past few days as it is. Arguing is what had gotten them into this mess. Instead Felicity turns to her computers. “Are you going out tonight?” she asks, knowing what the answer is as she gets settled, and knowing that it’s not the answer she wants to hear.

Oliver grunts again. That’s a yes then. She carefully doesn’t press that either, sorting through the information she’s pulled up on her screens already. She’s taken the time since coming back to start memorizing exactly what Oliver’s been working on.

“Gunrunners, Bertinellis, or patrol?” she asks carefully.

“Bertinellis,” Oliver answers. She can see the motions of him finishing up out of the corner of her eye. “Roberts is going to be in the Glades tonight.”

He starts to tape gauze over his now stitch-free wound as Felicity’s mind whirls. Roberts, Roberts, she knows that name… She’s been gone a month and back a week and she still hasn’t caught up on all the information Oliver had catalogued in their absence. But she’s been trying, working furiously to get back up to speed, and the name Roberts, in connection with the Bertinellis, rings a bell.

“Honeycutt’s replacement?” she clarifies with a frown, shifting her track at the computers to pull up the massive Bertinelli file.

Oliver grunts again.

Felicity lets her nose wrinkle. “I didn’t like him,” she says, remembering. “No arrest record, no complaints, not even a suspension in high school, but something about him seems slimy. Slippery. Like a weasel. A slimy, evil, weasel.”

There’s no trace of amusement on Oliver’s face as he listens to her speak, but he waits until she’s done before he walks away to change into his green suit.

That’s something, at least.

* * *

Wind whistles through the alleyways, loud and forceful tonight. There’s a storm brewing on the horizon but Oliver judges that it probably won’t hit until around sunrise. Plenty of time for him to finish what he’s doing now.

“Please, man! I don’t know anything!”

Hands zip-tied in front of him and shaking like a leaf from where he lays curled on the pavement, the man on the ground before the Arrow doesn’t present a physical threat.

But he is a liar.

Oliver doesn’t even turn to look at him, continuing to stand tall and listen to his city. Fall has well and truly arrived. The nights are chillier, the days shorter. Clouds cover the few visible stars at the moment, precursors to the coming storm. In the distance Oliver can hear traffic from the streets beyond the shadowed alley he stands in. A dog barks a few blocks down.

This time last year, Oliver was on his way home.

“Alright, alright, I’ve seen Pino, but he didn’t tell me nothing! I swear!”

Threats and violence work on some people, silence and intimidation on others. Trent Roberts is afraid of the Arrow – he’s not faking that – but there’s a reason he’s Pino Bertinelli’s new right-hand man after Honeycutt’s arrest: he plays stupid incredibly well. Unlike others who might bluster and hide their fear, Roberts gives into it, uses it as a shield, exaggerates it, and turns mere fear – mere caution and a certain reasonable wariness – into heart-stopping terror. His exaggerated emotions make most people think he’s telling the truth when he speaks.

But Oliver’s spent weeks just getting his name and further weeks finding the best way to ambush the man. He’s learned all about Roberts by now, his habits and methods of gaining information, and just how often he’s managed to weasel his way out of trouble over the years. (Roberts’ bodyguard, courtesy of the Bertinellis, is stuck to a wall two alleys over. He’d stopped yelling about fifteen minutes ago. Roberts hadn’t much liked getting dragged through the alleys as Oliver’d put some distance between them but other than that Oliver hasn’t touched him. He doesn’t need to. He’s an archer. He can wait.)

“I swear, I don’t know anything!” There are actually tears in Roberts’ eyes. Still trembling, the man gropes forward and seems to latch blindly onto Oliver’s leg. Clever. There _is_ a knife in his boot, small but definitely capable of cutting through the zip ties. Either Roberts has studied him too, or he’s very observant, to spot the small impression the knife makes in the poorly lit nighttime hours. Oliver gives the man a moment to subtly work the blade free, then yanks his leg out of the man’s grasp.

Carefully, so that Roberts can see it, he switches the hand his bow is in, wondering how much Roberts really knows about him. Technically, Oliver is right-handed, and normally (almost always, actually) holds his bow in his left. But he’s almost equally talented when holding the bow in his right, even if his quiver is angled for a right-hand grab.

“I’m not interested in your lies,” he growls out through the voice modulator. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a glint of light as the streetlamp behind him reflects orange light off of his stolen knife blade. He pretends not to see it.

“No lies!” Roberts protests. “I’m, I’m… I’m an independent contractor! Only done a few jobs for the Bertinellis, I promise! I don’t know anything!” He’s very good at blustering even while sawing through the plastic that holds him. His tone doesn’t waver once. The man is a consummate actor.

Oliver stares at the brick that lines one side of the alley. It’s an old wall, sturdy if somewhat worn. Both the building beyond it and the one on the other side of the alley are abandoned. No one is about to interrupt them.

“Tell me about Pino Bertinelli,” Oliver repeats again, clear and plain with a touch of frustration added into his tone that isn’t even really all that false. He can act too. He knows how to use the emotions he’s already feeling to project something not entirely true just as Roberts seems to. His right hand intentionally clenches on his bow. He shifts, turns his shoulder ever so slightly the wrong way, moves his head just so, so that Roberts isn’t quite in his line of sight anymore.

As he moves, Oliver’s mind is three steps ahead of his body, picturing what will happen next: arrow if Roberts runs, aimed low; pull back with a spin to shift his body weight, ducking slightly and following up with a punch if the man chooses to fight. On the rare chance he throws the knife, Oliver’s ready for that too. It’s a risk, but a small one. Roberts is as high as he is in the Bertinelli organization for three reasons and three reasons only: his intelligence, his skill as a conman, and the fact that there are few other people vying for the job these days that have the requisite skills.

He’s not a fighter.

It’s a quiet night, at least in this part of the Glades. Even through the sounds of Roberts’ movements on the asphalt beneath him, Oliver hears the small ‘snick’ as the man behind him finally breaks through his restraints. Exercising the intelligence that’s kept him alive in the Glades up to this point, Roberts doesn’t immediately scramble upward and try to run. Apparently, he’s smart enough to know better than that.

_If he doesn’t have to run, he won’t,_ Oliver realizes. Turning away, switching his bow hand… It’s not enough. Roberts knows he’s no match for Oliver physically, even with the knife. _Smart,_ Oliver thinks grimly.

Roberts thinks he has the upper hand now that he’s free but he’s waiting to play it until he can maximize the advantage he thinks he has. Now he has optimism that he didn’t before, which gives him more motivation to keep lying. Or, at least, no motivation to stop lying. Fear and intimidation mean nothing if Roberts thinks he’s getting away at the end.

So Oliver changes tactics in his mind, evaluating a new set of events. He turns to face Roberts head on and stares down at the man on the pavement, hands under him to hide the broken zip tie. Roberts is your average white American male – average height, average weight, brown hair and brown eyes. He could almost have been a nondescript businessman, in another life.

Based on the angle of his wrists, he’s holding the knife wrong, barely keeping from stabbing himself in his effort to keep the stolen weapon out of sight. It’s not an angle he’ll easily be able to attack from.

Oliver pauses a moment, then, “I’ll take my knife back now,” the Arrow says, stern and demanding and harsh.

Roberts flinches.

There. Oliver’s caught him off guard. Roberts thinks he knows the Green Arrow, knows what to expect, how to react. Since he’d first dropped down in front of the criminal from above, Oliver’s been doing his best to throw off those expectations.

He pulls an arrow from his quiver slowly, carefully nocking it with his left hand.

Roberts’ eyes widen almost imperceptibly. Any thoughts he might have had about having a slight advantage are clearly long gone. The Arrow knows he’s gotten free, the Arrow knows he’d stolen his knife. The Green Arrow can shoot equally well with both hands. All of the vigilantes’ – Oliver’s – actions these past few minutes have been a carefully modulated act – just like Roberts’ own actions.

Oliver can practically see the realization enter Roberts’ eyes.

The blade clatters to the pavement as Roberts releases it.

Oliver doesn’t doubt that this fear is exaggerated too, but so long as Roberts feeds him information, he’ll take what he can get. Less than thirty minutes later, Oliver stands on a rooftop watching as Detective Lance cuts Roberts free from his second set of zip ties.

“You can’t arrest me,” Roberts says, all pride and bluster with none of the fear he’d shown to the Arrow. Exaggerating his emotions yet again, tweaking them to show what he wants to the world without having to fake it completely. (He _is_ good, Oliver admits to himself reluctantly.) “You’ve got nothing on me.”

“No, we don’t,” Quentin agrees easily enough. There’s no warrant out for Roberts’ arrest, no reason for the police to take him in. “But now we know who you are. I’d think twice about committing any crimes in Star City if I were you.”

Roberts bristles as if offended and hurries away as soon as he’s free. Quentin stands still and waits until he’s out of sight. The red and blue lights from the patrol car he’d left Hwang sitting in reflect unpleasantly off his face and he wears a windbreaker to stave off the chill.

“My shift ended almost an hour ago,” he says gruffly without looking up.

Mild amusement creeps into Oliver’s emotions. Whatever the hatred between Oliver Queen and Quentin Lance, the detective has started to respect the Arrow, however grudgingly. At the very least, he takes what the vigilante says at face value these days. He might not have been able to arrest Trent Roberts but now he knows who Bertinelli’s second in command is.

“Did I really need to come all the way out here?”

“He’s Pino’s second,” Oliver responds gruffly, allowing his voice to carry just far enough to reach the detective two floors below him. “Keep an eye on him.”

Quentin scoffs. “As if I was gonna do anything else, now that you’ve let him know we’re on to him.”

_We_. Oliver’s brain hovers over the sentiment briefly before he dismisses such thoughts as a distraction and moves on. He doesn’t respond to the statement. Quentin’s an old-fashioned cop. Giving him Roberts’ name over the phone wouldn’t have been enough for him, he’d have wanted a face to face meeting. So Oliver’d given him one.

The next time Quentin looks up, Oliver’s silhouette is gone from the rooftop.

* * *

Oliver takes a circuitous route to the foundry afterward. He winds his way down Ocean View then cuts through an alley, zips across 34th street, and winds up going northeast on Taylor. It’s a dark, quiet night. The local hangouts are as crowded as ever – O’Connor’s Irish Village further north on Naples and 46th; Max’s on Bend Street to the east; the pool hall on Harrison Avenue to the west – but with the storm coming the streets themselves are pretty empty.

He circles around Verdant once, twice, wide routes, taking different roads and back alleys each time, then zips his bike into its hiding spot in the alley next to his club. After locking it up tight he enters the foundry.

Diggle and Felicity are both hovering over the computers – him standing, her sitting – having an animated discussion. Diggle glances up at the sound of the door and nods absently in greeting but Felicity is absorbed in whatever is on the screens in front of her.

Lowering his hood, Oliver tunes his mind into the conversation.

“– solid evidence,” Felicity is saying. “We only got Honeycutt because the drug deal turned into a shoot-out with the cops, and it’s hard to talk your way out of that. Not that he didn’t _try_ , but, I mean… Well, what I was saying was that we had to let Roberts go.”

“If Pino’s anything like Frank, that’ll be hard to do,” Diggle responds. He points to something on the screen. “What about that one?”

Felicity works at the computer screen for a minute, then two, then shakes her head. “I’ll do some more digging, but… Shell company of a shell company of Bertinelli Construction,” she says. “No obvious connection to Pino.”

They’re discussing the information Roberts had given him. Names and addresses. For a mob boss like Bertinelli, intimidation and fear won’t turn him off his business the way it might stop a one-time car jacker or opportunistic mugger. If Oliver wants to stop him the police are going to have to be involved. Which means irrefutable evidence that can definitively be linked to Pino Bertinelli himself.

He steps further into the room, unbuckling the strap to his quiver. Felicity looks up at the sound and movement, mouth a thin line that speaks to her frustration in being unable to find a clear solution in the hour since he’d gotten her the information. She’s good, Oliver knows, but she’s not that good. No one is.

“Up for a spar?” he asks Diggle. The streets are quiet, Felicity can bounce ideas off them if they stay while she works, it’s been a while since he’d had a good training spar, and he’s not in the right mood to sit around and discuss things with his two partners, returned from a month off. He needs to keep moving, let out some energy.

Diggle glances at Felicity, slight surprise in his expression that he quickly masks, then nods. “Sure,” he says. “Few minutes to get changed?”

Oliver nods back in easy agreement and moves to take the bathroom first.

* * *

“Well, at least he didn’t seem angry?” Felicity offers as soon as the door shuts behind Oliver, both of them staring after him. For once, Oliver is the first to leave the foundry, and not in his green suit.

John tears his gaze away from the door with effort, turning to his friend. “I would have preferred angry,” he admits, heavy with regret and holding back his frustration.

Felicity narrows her eyes, confused. “You _want_ him to be mad at us?” Despite the mistake they’d made, the misinterpretation of Oliver’s words, Felicity still doesn’t feel like they did anything wrong, like Oliver has any reason to be upset.

John can’t say that he entirely disagrees with her. Yeah, they could have handled things better, and yeah, they could have tried to talk to Oliver instead of just walking away and yeah, his reaction makes a bit more sense given what Sara had told them, but… Even Oliver agrees with them and thinks that keeping Sara’s secret is a mistake. So they _hadn’t_ exactly been wrong.

They’d just pushed too hard.

“At least anger’s an emotion,” he tells Felicity. “That? That was mechanical.” It had felt good to spar with Oliver again – at first. But then John had noticed the blank look on Oliver’s face, the lack of creativity, the sparsely worded critiques. He hadn’t been trying to teach Digg, the way they sometimes fought, nor had he been refining his own techniques. Oliver had only been going through the motions, expending energy.

Felicity’s shoulders sink slightly. She’s been around Oliver long enough to have noticed a difference in the way he acts now, even if she hadn’t wanted to admit it. “He’s shutting us out again,” she says, a tinge of anger in her own tone.

John’s own frustration spikes in sympathy. “It’s like he just got back,” he agrees. But he can’t let himself get mad at Oliver’s reaction. He needs to try and understand it instead. Otherwise they’ll just end up having the same argument all over again. He wipes the sweat off his face again and finally moves for his water bottle.

“But… I mean, he’s still trusting us?” It is clear Felicity has meant for her words to be a statement, from the internal confusion reflected on her face, but they come out as a question instead.

She’s right – Oliver has no problem taking directions from them and following leads they manage to turn up. He _is_ still trusting them, with that much at least, so it’s not quite the same as when John had first started working with him. He’s not emotionless because he’s holding back his anger either, because he doesn’t seem to actually be angry with them. At least, John doesn’t think so.

That’s something that John is just starting to realize about Oliver – he doesn’t hold a grudge. He’s slow to trust – they haven’t fallen back into the easy partnership they’d had before the fiasco and it seems like it will be some time before they get back there again – but he doesn’t throw blame around. He hadn’t wanted to discuss things with them, but he hadn’t _blamed_ them either. He’s stiff and less expressive, maybe even waiting for them to leave again, judging from some of the things he’s said, but there has yet to be any sort of accusation in his words.

In fact, the only person Oliver ever seems to blame is himself. And with the distance Oliver is creating between them, is refusing to bridge, John’s not sure what to do about it.

* * *

Even by Oliver’s standards, the night isn’t young anymore. It’s almost four in the morning. He’s almost always hung up the hood at this point, set down his bow and maybe even gone home for the night. Some nights, frantic ones, he’ll stay out till five, or even until the sun rises, but those nights are rare. And while he might have had the energy to do so tonight – today – he hadn’t had the willpower. Some nights, the streets and the violence he seeks out seem like the only thing holding him together. Tonight – this morning – he finds himself needing solitude.

Even when the Felicity and Diggle had been squared away in the foundry and he’d been navigating Star City’s worst areas on his motorbike, Oliver could have sworn he had felt their gazes boring into his back. Concerned gazes, perhaps, but that doesn’t make him feel any better.

They’re walking on eggshells around him, waiting to see if he’s going to blow up again. Even during their spar Diggle had hesitated once or twice – maybe because Felicity had told him about Oliver’s injury, but probably not. It had barely been noticeable, but each time he’d landed a hit, however light, however infrequently, he’d paused as if to wait for Oliver’s reaction.

Oliver won’t deny that violence, more often than not, is his way of releasing his anger. On bad days, he relishes a good fight, the chance to feel his blood singing through his veins and pain racing across his skin. And while he doesn’t think he’s the kind of person who would physically lash out at his friends in anger – would unintentionally hurt Diggle, or Felicity, or Tommy or Laurel or Thea ( _God no he could never hurt them_ ) – he’s not sure he can be one hundred percent confident in that fact.

He looks at his past, remembers the things he’s done, and for five years his life has been stained with blood (is still stained with blood, honestly) – some of it shed by him, a good amount shed by the people he’s hurt. Felicity and Diggle are waiting with bated breath to see how he handles their return. If he’s honest with himself, so is he.

He can’t blame them for being wary when he’s not even sure of how he feels.

So, the night isn’t young, sunrise and a storm only hours away, and Oliver doesn’t want to hit the streets again as the Arrow, but he’s restless. Buoyed up by energy he wasn’t able to dispel with Diggle.

He heads for his secondary base of operations, still a secret after all this time, and sinks arrow after arrow into the targets in front of him.

* * *

* * *

_October 20, 2013, mid-afternoon:_

“I got your text,” Felicity says in a rush, hurrying down the stairs. “What’s the emergency?”

“Someone released a copy of the List online,” Diggle responds, just as quickly.

Oliver’s already standing, moving away from the computers to give Felicity access. “It’s not the real List,” he says confidently, ignoring the tiny part of himself that had been wondering if Felicity would even show up. In the short time he’s had in the foundry since the news had surfaced, he’s read through the online copy long enough to realize it’s not the same as his own. Not the same as the one he’d given the _Register_ and the SCPD and Laurel.

Could another copy of the List exist? He doubts it. Malcolm had made it, written it, possibly with Robert Queen’s help. He wouldn’t have let anyone else decide who to put on it.

This isn’t a leak after months of outcry from Star City. This is someone publishing their own version. He almost doesn’t need Felicity to confirm that for him. But…

But she’s here, isn’t she? She wants the same thing as him, right? Oliver lets her get to work.

“What do you mean, not the real List?” Felicity asks. She’s already pulling up the real List, comparing it to the version released online with her software.

With her here, Diggle steps up to her other side, also shooting Oliver a look at his comment.

“The names don’t match,” Oliver says shortly. “And it’s not long enough.”

Not nearly long enough.

Felicity types a few things, then lets the comparison program run in the background as she pulls up the link to the released list. She quirks an eyebrow at it. “This is barely a hundred names.”

“Ninety-three.”

Diggle shoots him another look. “You’re sure someone didn’t just release a partial version? Maybe someone else only wanted their enemies to be exposed publicly.”

If a Lister had gotten hold of the List, Oliver wouldn’t put it past them to edit it to target only their rivals. But even though he hasn’t memorized the entire List yet, there are names on the copy that he knows with certainty aren’t on the List.

He grunts. He’s not so sure why Diggle seems to doubt his word so much. He’s also sure that he’s overreacting to his bodyguard’s doubt simply because he’s spent a month without being questioned on what he does.

“ _Twitter?!_ ” Felicity exclaims meanwhile, completely oblivious to the two of them as she delves into her work. “They released it on _Twitter_?”

More accurately speaking, a Twitter post had led to a link which had contained the list, but, yeah. It’d been posted by someone with the handle @takebackStarCity. There are no previous posts, the account having been created only yesterday, and there have been no posts yet besides the link. All that is stated is that the user had obtained a copy of Malcolm’s “Black Book”, and nothing else. No mention of who they’d supposedly gotten their copy from, whether it be the media or the police.

“Can you trace it?” Diggle is the one to ask, partly because Oliver’s certain that even _he_ could trace it, given enough time, which means that Felicity certainly can, and partly because, well… It’s been a month, but Oliver hasn’t forgotten their arguments.

Will Felicity even want to trace it? Will they take different sides on how to handle this?

Oliver’s still waiting himself to see how the city takes things to decide on a course of action. If the false list is largely ignored, then he’s not sure there’s much he needs to do. There’s nothing illegal about posting a list of names online, and if it makes life a little harder for a few millionaires for a short while then so what? (Will Felicity and Diggle see things the same way?)

On the other hand, if the list gets passed around, flaunted like the real thing, inciting anger and mobs, well then, he’s obligated to do something, isn’t he? Especially if the people being targeted don’t deserve it, or if there’s a danger of innocents getting hurt.

It’s only been a few hours though. It’s too early to tell what the outcome will be.

As Oliver’s mind spins, Felicity shoots Diggle a look, not bothering to answer. They’ve asked her about her capabilities often enough in the past to know what that look means, Oliver figures. But when Diggle raises his hands as if in faux surrender, glancing over toward Oliver with a grin of amusement at Felicity’s affronted look, Oliver doesn’t find himself instinctively returning the grin.

He might have, once. But it takes him a moment to remember that sort of camaraderie. Too often lately, any doubt about the technical capabilities of the things the Arrow needed done were only about what _he_ could do. He’s been on his own for a month. He hasn’t looked over at anyone to share a joke with in about that long.

Diggle’s grin falters. It’s too late for Oliver to echo it, even if he’d felt he could muster up the effort.

“How long will it take?” he asks Felicity instead.

“Depends,” she shoots over her shoulder absentmindedly, already immersed in her work. “Some people actually know how to hide their IP address.”

It depends then, Oliver translates, on whether or not this is some random person who’d used Twitter because it was the only thing they could think of, or a computer scientist like Felicity who’d figured it was the best way to stay anonymous. She could be done in ten minutes. It could take her hours.

It’s the middle of the day – far too early to hit the streets – but Oliver can’t leave. There’s no telling when Felicity will be done, after all, but he feels a need to be here when she is.

She doesn’t utter a complaint, at least, about how she’s about to be spending her weekend. Doesn’t complain that it’s a waste of time. Doesn’t make any moves toward leaving.

_She never has before,_ Oliver’s thoughts whisper, even as he finds himself glancing over at Diggle to see if he’s considering sticking around or not. But what’s happened before doesn’t seem to be much of a metric anymore, not for the three of them. Too much has changed.

Oliver moves to pick up his bow. It never hurts to get a little practice in.

* * *

Hours later, the tension in the foundry is palpable enough that even Felicity, deep into her computer systems, has picked up on it, glancing up every now and again to send anxious glances between Oliver and Diggle. The list is definitely not the real thing, no matter that there are some names that match between it and the List, but the individual who’d released it knows something about covering their tracks at least. It’s not the kind of hack Felicity can do in an hour.

Diggle’s moved from cleaning his guns to sorting through the first aid kit, making sure everything’s ready for use and not expired. Oliver’s moved from firing arrows to sharpening them. No one has suggested taking a break for food, and with Felicity absorbed in her task, that leaves it up to either him or Diggle to start any conversation.

Every attempt Diggle’s made – updates on Moira’s case, questions about the Lister’s Oliver’s targeted – have fizzled out after a few one word replies from Oliver.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to share the information. He’s answered every question honestly. It’s just that… what’s the point of sharing information with someone who isn’t going to stick around?

_But they’re here_ , he tells himself, _they came back_.

They did. Doesn’t mean they won’t leave again.

* * *

“Got it!” Felicity exclaims with triumph, just past eight that evening. Diggle had finally broken through the tension around six thirty to go and fetch dinner, but after a tense fifteen minutes of poor conversation and hastily swallowed Chinese food, silence had fallen again in the foundry. Felicity’s shout startles activity back into Diggle and Oliver both, Diggle jerking upward from where he’s been taking care of some bodyguard-related paperwork, Oliver turning to look from off to the side, where he’s been working out.

“Got what?” Diggle asks, as Oliver stands up from the pushups he’d been doing and wanders over.

“He’d thought he could hide from me,” Felicity declares with a smirk. “He’ll learn.”

Oliver hopes not. He’d prefer that their culprit, whoever he is, stays away from cybercrimes in the future.

“What do you have?” he asks, because her words hadn’t exactly been an answer.

“Nathanial Urbina, nineteen, freshmen in computer science at Star City University, and author of our fake list.” Triumph rings clear in Felicity’s voice.

Oliver takes that to mean that she doesn’t consider Urbina to be a threat.

“That name sounds familiar,” Diggle says, giving voice to Oliver’s thoughts as well.

“They’re not on the List,” Felicity shoots out, “but they could be, given how much they’re rolling in dough. No real bad publicity to their name, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a few skeletons in their closet. Not real skeletons, I mean, just…” Felicity cuts herself off, glancing over at Oliver. “They were at your last fundraiser. His parents, I mean.”

Oliver remembers. Marco and Regina Urbina. He’d only spoken to them for a few moments. He doesn’t remember much, honestly, just that neither of them was on the List, and neither of them posed much of a physical threat.

“And their son?” he asks, because that’s more important here.

Felicity turns back to her computers, scrolling through the information she’s pulled up. “Well, like I said, he’s a freshman at SCU, got a couple warnings and notes on his record from the SCPD but no real arrests or anything – he was in the car when his friend was driving drunk, his other friend was a drug dealer… You know, always just skirting outside trouble. His record so far at SCU is pretty good, but, then again, it is only October.”

“Give him time,” Diggle says, amusement in his tone.

Oliver stiffens slightly. College kid, enjoying the night life – he can understand the joke well enough. But Urbina’s also released a fake copy of the List, and he can’t put that aside to joke about how much the teenager might like to party. Urbina’s a legal adult now. He can face the consequences of his actions.

Maybe few people in Star City have noticed the fake list so far, maybe it hasn’t incited riots. That doesn’t mean it still can’t. Oliver’s had hours to consider how to proceed. He’s made his decision.

“Do we have a location?”

Felicity tenses minutely, Diggle’s look turns hesitant.

“He’s nineteen,” Felicity says resolutely.

As if that really means anything. Oliver had been twenty-two when he’d boarded the _Gambit_.

As if Oliver had really been planning on putting an arrow in Urbina.

But questioning his decisions had been why Felicity and Diggle had left in the first place. Just because they’ve reconciled on one decision doesn’t mean they’re back in sync.

_It was like this before_ , Oliver tries to tell himself, remembering one memorable occasion when Felicity had pulled up information on a Lister’s kid to attempt to persuade him to go easy on the man. _This is no different from then_. But it feels different, whether or not it actually is.

“He’s an adult,” he returns. “He made his choice.”

Felicity glances at Diggle instead of speaking, another sign of the fission that remains in the air between them.

Diggle responds to her silent plea by taking a step toward him. “Anyone can post a fake list, Oliver. This kid won’t be the first.”

It’s a good point, whatever Diggle’s reasons for stating it. Urbina’s trying to help his city, just like Lane had been. Others will follow in his footsteps. Oliver recalculates his approach.

He turns to Felicity. “Can you remove the post?”

She blinks, taken aback by the change in topic, by his shift in methods, then frowns in thought. “It would be better if I messed up the site he posted the list on,” she points out, thinking aloud more than anything else. “That way people who’ve saved the link can’t continue to access his list.”

Oliver’s not the IT genius Felicity is, but the statement gives him a sudden idea.

“Can you edit the web page?” he asks.

“I mean, I _could_ …?”

“Do it. Put Urbina’s name on top of it.” That should discredit the false list and give Urbina pause before he does anything similar ever again.

Felicity hesitates, glancing over at Diggle again.

“That… that could work,” Diggle says, meeting Felicity’s gaze.

Oliver doesn’t wait for them to turn back to him. He turns his back on them instead and strides from the room. He’s spent enough time in the basement today already and the Arrow doesn’t hit the streets every night. If he’s not targeting Urbina, there’s nothing else that’s urgent.

Right now he wants to be alone.

* * *

* * *

_October 23, 2013, morning:_

“You’re late,” Thea says, tone flat and disapproving from where she stands in front of him. Her crossed arms wrinkle her conservative white blouse and her jaw is tight. It’s not really anger in her voice, and it’s not really disappointment either: it’s disapproval. It’s a guilt that doesn’t belong to her, but one that she feels anyway. It’s worry for the situation coupled with resentment for almost making her face it alone.

Oliver winces at her expression, already filled with regret before Thea had even spoken. “Sorry,” he starts, but Thea isn’t having it. She’s mostly reconciled with Moira, even visited her a few times the past several weeks, but anything to do with the Queen matriarch still puts her on edge. Add in Oliver’s chronic tardiness and his seeming inability to handle any responsibilities and it’s easy to see why Thea’s in a mood this morning. (Oliver can still picture the news story from last week: _Scuffle at Queen Fundraiser Without the Queens_. A fight had broken out between a waiter and a guest and neither he nor Thea had been there to see it – or stop it, or even just settle the crowd after the fact, as a host at such a high society function was meant to do. Oliver’s been missing too many events these days, or leaving them early, and he’s been skipping out on movie days with Thea and avoiding meals with her altogether. He can’t really be surprised she’d noticed.)

Thea brushes past Oliver to step through the doorway just beyond him, the click of her heels against the linoleum giving way to muffled thuds as she enters Jean Loring’s carpeted office. After taking a deep breath and cursing himself for his inability to do the right thing (in any situation, it’s starting to seem), Oliver follows after her.

The worst part is, he hadn’t even meant to be late. This isn’t part of his careless playboy act. He’d been out on the streets from nine last night until four this morning, chasing down more leads on the men bringing automatic weapons into the Glades – disgruntled residents who’d suffered in the miniquake, judging from those Oliver’s already turned over to the police. They’ve slowed somewhat, after he and Sara had stopped a few shipments, but he still hasn’t located the ringleader.

Then, knowing he’d needed sleep, Oliver had gone to his secondary base yet again (for the third time that week) and tried to crash on the cot there. He’d gotten less than an hour, spent the next half-hour shooting arrows into a target, then tried again. When he’d woken the second time it had been just before seven. Throwing a (regular) hood over his face, Oliver had gone for a run and lost track of time.

When he’d finally gotten to Loring’s office it was ten minutes past the meeting time. Truth be told, that’s not terrible considering Oliver Queen’s public track record, but it’s not great when meeting your mother’s defense attorney regarding her upcoming trial. The fact that the lateness was unintentional doesn’t make it any less rude.

“Ms. Queen, Mr. Queen,” Loring says, nodding at both of them as they enter the room. Her blonde hair is perfectly styled, her outfit impeccable (and expensive). Despite several comments from both Oliver and Thea she has yet to drop her formal nature. There’s a distasteful twist to the features of her face, no doubt regarding their – his – tardiness, but she doesn’t mention that, getting right to business.

Oliver and Thea take their seats on the other side of her desk, letting her words wash over them, until:

“Life in prison?!” Thea blurts out, taken aback by the latest development in Moira’s case.

“Donner’s looking for a case that will make his career. He’s trying to make a statement and he’s using your mother to do it,” Loring tells them calmly. She’s an old friend of Moira’s but, from what Oliver’s seen so far, she’s not letting that interfere with her job.

“That’s not fair!”

Loring just barely inclines her head. “We have a strong case in Moira’s favor,” she states plainly. “The evidence we have makes it exceedingly obvious that she was being threatened into participating – Robert Queen’s murder, as well as your time as a castaway” – she nods toward Oliver – “highlight the entire reason she got involved. And Walter Steele’s kidnapping works in her favor as well.”

Part of Oliver wants to bristle at the casual way she speaks of his father’s death (the crack of the gunshot, the jolt of adrenaline that had coursed through his body at the sudden shock, the growing smell of his father’s corpse as he’d drifted toward Lian Yu…) and Walter’s kidnapping (a small cell, gray and bare; an adult man’s form curled up on a thin cot; an army of guards keeping one man trapped for months…). The rest of them acknowledges the fact that she’s right. The evidence for his mother is strong.

Thea doesn’t have his killer (cruel) instincts. She does bristle at the matter-of-fact tone.

Oliver leans forward in his seat before she can say anything. “What are we countering with?” he asks calmly.

Thea shoots him a bitter look at the interruption but settles back in her seat, clearly also interested in the answer. Her stormy eyes lock onto Loring.

The lawyer glances between the both of them and, for the first time that morning, hesitates. “You have to understand, despite the evidence for her, your mother was part of a plot to level the Glades and kill thousands of people as a result. There’s never been a mass murder trial on such a scale before, not in the public eye. And with Mr. Merlyn dead, Moira is the only target left. A lot of people are out for blood.”

It’s not an answer. And Oliver doesn’t need to be patronized. “How long?”

“Moira and I have agreed our best option is to ask for fifteen years, with the possibility of parole in ten.”

Ten years. Oliver runs through the math in his head. Moira is almost fifty now. If Donner accepts her counteroffer, she’ll be sixty when she gets out. He’ll be almost forty, Thea almost thirty.

“Hold on,” Thea butts in, also leaning forward. “ _Ask_? You mean take a plea deal.”

Oliver blinks and throws her a look at the accusation in her tone. Apparently, between working at Verdant and taking a few classes, Thea’s also been reading up on the law. Or maybe just talking to Laurel. Either way, she’s done her homework.

“That is what your mother has requested.”

“Why doesn’t she just take the stand?” Thea asks, clearly upset.

Oliver has a sinking suspicion he knows why. Perhaps not the exact reason, but past experiences, including his own, have taught him that there is an abundance of secrets in the Queen family. It stands to reason that not all of Moira’s have come to light yet.

“That’s a conversation you’ll have to have with your mother,” Loring says finally.

Both Thea and Oliver recognize the dismissal when they hear it. Thea clearly isn’t happy about the outcome of their talk, but Oliver stands, holds out a hand, and thanks Loring for meeting with them. He leaves the office with a fuming younger sister at his side, wondering if their mother will be honest enough with them to tell them what she’s hiding this time.

* * *

* * *

_October 25, 2013, night:_

Tommy’d stopped by tonight to ask about letting Thea know that she couldn’t go in the basement. Oliver’d answered his questions, given him his excuses, but he’d been more focused on Tommy’s mood than anything else. On the way Tommy had hesitated when he’d seen Felicity and Diggle. On the way Felicity had been barely able to look at him, and how Tommy had noticed that. Oliver had noticed the moment that Tommy realized that, whatever secret Oliver is keeping from him now, Felicity and Diggle know it too.

But Tommy had only nodded, accepting the excuse, and headed back upstairs. He’s not happy, but he’s not willing to push either.

_He doesn’t want to be involved in this anymore_ , Oliver reminds himself. He can’t help but remember that he’d never intended to tell him anyway, or wonder how things would be different now if Tommy’d never found out the truth.

What’s done is done though. He watches Tommy leave for but a moment, then makes his own way outside without another word. While the day had been another eighty-degree day – even northern California gets plenty of sun in the fall – the temperature’s already down to sixty Fahrenheit and still dropping. There’s no wind, no rain, and not a cloud in the sky. The thunderstorm from several days ago is long gone.

Tonight, Oliver has a destination in mind. He swings a leg over his bike and performs one last internal check, the same thing he does every night he puts on the suit. He’s exactly as armed as he always is, he has a few, small, emergency supplies tucked in various pockets, his hood is secure, his bow ready, and the communication system active, if not open at the moment. Revving his engine, he speeds off toward Victor De Luca’s apartment on Pine Street.

By now Oliver has, of course, long since become familiar with Star City’s streets, even those outside the Glades. He knows which businesses have the most security cameras (and which are facing toward the street), which intersections have traffic cameras, and which streets will have the most traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. He’s not in so much of a hurry that he doesn’t use that information to his advantage tonight, flowing around obstructions and avoiding cameras and traffic alike before he can even see them. It takes him a little longer to get to his destination, but that’s a small price to pay.

De Luca’s apartment complex is moderately sized for the average middle-class family or individual. Four buildings form a square, a small, vaguely ill-kept courtyard between them. The portion of Pine Street they occupy is just south of downtown – the four eight-story buildings are the tallest ones around, surrounded by two-, three-, and four-story businesses, which eliminates entry from the roof. Unless Oliver goes up one building and crosses over to another.

He considers it for a moment, now that he can actually see the structures in front of him, then dismisses it. Not worth the time and effort.

Victor De Luca has his residence on the third floor of the south-east building. He’s sandwiched between the two corner apartments, window facing east. Exterior window, as in not facing the courtyard or any of the other three buildings, and the fire escape is on the south side. Again, it would take some effort to enter the man’s apartment that way.

They’d discovered Victor De Luca’s involvement in the Bertinelli family thanks to the information Trent Roberts had given them. Roberts hadn’t actually given them the man’s name, but he’d given them ten locations the Bertinellis worked out of. Six were in the Glades. Five of them Felicity had managed to link, however tenuously, to Bertinelli Construction. Three of them had been purchased with private accounts, people rather than companies. Except, in this case, the name on all three had been the same.

Not an enforcer, not a drug dealer, maybe only loosely involved, but connected nevertheless. Short on resources, rather than invent a fictious person to buy the properties the Bertinelli family had chosen instead to rely on a real person, on Victor De Luca, to put his name down for them.

With no criminal record, a steady job for the last twenty years as an accountant at B&N Corp, and a history of occasionally buying up properties, fixing them, and then selling or renting them, De Luca’s purchases haven’t raised a single red flag.

There is, of course, the possibility that De Luca is just a fall guy who has no idea about the properties in his name. Oliver doubts it, but he keeps the thought in the back of his mind. But even if he isn’t, he’s not going to show much of a connection to a mob family. Oliver could conduct surveillance for weeks and get little more than a vague phone call telling De Luca to buy or sell a certain property. Taking advice on real estate isn’t illegal, and with De Luca’s name on the lease, he’s going to stay as far away from the illegal stuff as he can. No, Oliver’s going to have to confront the man – and what better way to unsettle him than appearing in his own home?

The trick will be avoiding any random passersby on his way to the man’s apartment. With the building in his sights, Oliver maps out his three potential exit plans first, depending on how far he gets, then his entrance. After a half-hour of watching the apartment complex from a nearby rooftop – studying the traffic, the lights in the windows, the security – and mentally reviewing the blueprints Felicity had pulled up for him earlier, Oliver moves.

He scales the wall briefly to give him a boost to the fire escape on the south side of De Luca’s building, mindful of his bow and quiver as he pulls himself upward. Once on the fire escape he moves to the fourth story and wedges open the window of an apartment that is currently empty. In a matter of minutes he’s gone from the ground outside to where he is now, and no one is the wiser. Now to go one floor down and two apartments counterclockwise. (De Luca’s entire floor is rented out, otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered climbing the extra height.)

Oliver makes his way to the apartment’s front door, crouches down, and listens to the sounds of the hall. There are eight apartments on each floor – four in the corners, four in between. He’s memorized the blueprints, knows De Luca’s neighbors on the floor below him, but it would have been pointless to memorize every resident of the building.

Pointless, because he has help again.

He opens the connection between himself and the foundry.

“Felicity, tell me what you know about the residents of the fourth floor of De Luca’s building.”

She rattles off facts and information, going on a tangent once or twice, but what it boils down to is this: eight apartments. His is empty. The sole resident on the northwest corner has a night job. The west apartment has two names on the lease, one is taking night classes at the community college and the other’s bartending shift ends at midnight. The southwest, north, and northeast apartments are occupied by families, all with small children (Oliver can hear the soft sounds of the television coming from the southwest apartment next to him). These apartments are occupied but the residents likely won’t be stepping outside anytime soon. Still, you never know. Oliver makes a mental note.

The two apartments that pose the most danger are the east and southeast ones. East houses a single mother and her teenager. From what Felicity can tell the mother works odd jobs; there’s no telling if she’s currently home or not. Southeast houses two young adult roommates with day jobs. Also no telling if they’re planning on heading out tonight, or if they already have and might be coming home soon.

_“They have security cameras,”_ Felicity finishes, _“but they’re on their own network. I can’t hack them without access.”_

Oliver grunts in acknowledgement. “Let me know if anything changes.” He mutes his end of the comm but leaves open his connection to the foundry. _You have backup_ , he reminds himself for the hundredth time that week. He just needs to remember to use it. Slowly and silently he unlocks and eases open the door he’s concealed behind.

His bow is already hooked onto his quiver from the climb, his hands free, so Oliver strides quickly over to the elevator bank, pulls the doors open just wide enough for him to slip inside, and steps into one of the elevator shafts. It takes a few minutes, but no on sees him except the cameras. A few quick maneuverings and he’s on the third floor. He crouches there for a moment, keeping one ear out for incoming elevators and another for footsteps in the hallway beyond him. He _did_ memorize the residents of the third floor so he knows exactly where everyone should be at the moment.

There are no footsteps in the hall but his comm clicks three times so Oliver waits, unmuting his connection.

“Go.”

_“911 call made from the lobby,”_ Diggle says quickly. _“Security probably spotted you on the cameras.”_

It’s nothing more than bad luck that they’d been looking at that moment. Nothing Oliver can do about it. He grunts in acknowledgement and mutes the comm yet again, already running through the math in his head. A Green Arrow sighting means the vigilante task force. It’s Lance’s night off so, although he’ll probably be called, that puts one of the other detectives in charge. Technically, James Holyfield has seniority. He’s an arrogant cop and a fan of the vigilante. He’ll insist everything is run through him first and he won’t want to impede whatever Oliver is doing. That gives him a few extra minutes, but not much. Holyfield is still an officer of the law.

Straining his muscles to pull open the elevator again, Oliver steps onto the third floor. The elevator he’d exited through faces east so only a few quick steps put him in front of De Luca’s door. There’s no time for subtlety. Oliver kicks the door in and has mere seconds to react to the sight in front of him. Without thinking, moving on instinct, Oliver spins, pivoting on his right leg and putting his back to the wall next to De Luca’s door. Barely a second after he moves a bullet flies out of the open doorway, denting the still-cracked elevator doors. Two more follow.

De Luca is definitely a fully-fledged member of the Bertinelli family, and he’s paid off somebody in security downstairs to warn him about any threats.

Oliver nocks an arrow, pictures De Luca’s position in his mind, then moves from one side of the doorway to the other. In the brief second he’s facing De Luca’s open apartment he lets loose the arrow. A cry of pain as he reaches the door on the other side tells him he’s hit his mark, but that doesn’t mean De Luca’s dropped his gun.

_“Police are two streets away,”_ Felicity says frantically through his comm.

His side is still muted, so they have no idea what’s going on, but he appreciates the warning. “Victor De Luca!” he shouts loudly, tone fierce and words deepened by his voice modulator. “Drop the gun!”

De Luca swears at him. Two more shots make their way out of the open doorframe.

Oliver runs through the scenarios in his head. A hospital is much easier to sneak into and De Luca is bound to contact the Bertinelli family as soon as he’s left alone in his room. The Arrow isn’t known for giving up but there are advantages to retreating now. He heads for the elevator bank again and puts one of his exit plans into action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 18: Disaster Strikes, should be up in about another week, on October 26th. Thanks for reading!


	18. Disaster Strikes

_October 26, 2013, night:_

Though Starling General is a twenty-four-hour hospital – as most are in any big city – the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning are still the best time to sneak in. Lights are dimmed in areas with overnight patients, certain sections are closed entirely, and the number of staff is significantly reduced. All Oliver has to do is avoid the busiest area, the ER. It helps that, between the two of them, he and Felicity had long since gained access to the hospital’s camera system. Unlike in De Luca’s apartment only a few hours before, she can tell him exactly which areas are clear and who might be approaching.

Without too much effort on either of their parts she guides him into the building, up a few floors, and to the hallway that De Luca’s room is located on. Once there the first real obstacle of the night presents themselves: a uniformed officer stands outside De Luca’s door. Bored and restless, but awake and paying attention. Oliver pauses in a nearby empty room, considering. He doesn’t want to hurt the officer, obviously. A sedative is an option, especially given that he’s in a hospital, never mind his tranquilizer darts, but Oliver usually reserves those for criminals. Though it’s rare, there’s always the possibility that someone might have an adverse reaction.

So if fighting or subduing aren’t options there are only two choices left: find a way into the room without the officer noticing or get the officer to look away. Or, even better, walk away. Of course, the problem with _that_ was that a good officer wasn’t supposed to ever leave their post. Oliver has no experience with this member of the SCPD, but he can’t expect them to be willing to disobey the rules without any background information. Even he’s not that cynical.

“Felicity,” he murmurs into the comm.

 _“I see her,”_ Felicity responds, in the tone that indicates she’s distracted by something she’s working on at her computer. ( _At least she didn’t automatically assume I’m going to put an arrow in her_ , Oliver thinks absently, before banishing such thoughts from his mind.) _“Her partner’s standing guard in the lobby. No way to get him to call her. But I could trigger the fire alarm, or any number of actual alarms, actually. Hospitals have way more alarms than I ever thought about. I mean, in hindsight, it makes sense – I have never really thought about how many drugs, or, well, medicine, but medicine is technically a drug, isn’t it? Anyway, there’s a lot –”_

As Felicity talks, Oliver thinks. Any perimeter alarm would probably trigger the officer’s partner in the lobby to investigate first, not helping his situation. An alarm in the pharmaceutical area might go ignored – the hospital has their own security, as well as other members of the SCPD who aren’t assigned to specific patients, and unless they are in danger the officer in front of him has a different mission. No, he needs something that affects this floor, or something serious enough to call all officers on duty. An Arrow sighting might do that, but Oliver doesn’t have the time for a wild goose chase, and that would entirely defeat the purpose of the distraction.

Rather than go complicated, Oliver goes simple. The officer is bored, restless, and annoyed at her posting. Given the SCPD’s typical shift schedules she’s probably been there since four in the afternoon and has another hour to go before the clock reaches midnight. She’s exhausted and irritated and probably doesn’t want to be doing this.

“I got it, Felicity,” Oliver says, interrupting his partner’s ramble. He mutes his end of the comm as she responds and pulls a flechette off his wrist. A quick glance down the darkened hall shows a sprinkler head only about a foot from De Luca’s door. Oliver aims carefully, then flicks his wrist.

A burst of water showers down on the unsuspecting officer. She lets out a loud curse, jumping in surprise and quickly moving out of range, already half sopping from the downpour. Her hand goes to her weapon too but a quick glance up and down the hall reassures her that there’s no one in sight and she’s much more concerned about the water pooling at her feet.

 _Nothing more than a faulty sprinkler_ , Oliver thinks, as if the sheer force of his will will be enough to force the officer to think similarly.

After a few tense moments it appears to be enough. The officer doesn’t immediately dismiss the empty hallway – a point in her favor, Oliver supposes, with his typical indecision between knowing that the worse the SCPD are the easier his job is, but also the more he has to do in the end – and she stands still for a short while, scanning, as a puddle grows on the floor beyond her. Then she radios her partner – Oliver unmutes his comm again so Felicity and Diggle can hear – and asks him to tell those at the front test to turn off the water to the sprinkler system in this part of the hospital.

 _“No worries,”_ Felicity says in his ear with glee. _“That computer’s having a few… glitches at the moment.”_

Oliver can picture her grin. He _has_ missed her. Them. This. He’d forgotten how easy it could be, the three of them working together. He pulls himself mentally from the thought, focusing instead on the officer’s next course of action. She swears again, looks up and down the hallway a fourth time, then steps away, telling her partner to let her know if anyone heads for the elevators. She passes by Oliver as he pulls himself further into the darkened room, likely headed for the lobby on this floor, and the computer system there. He doesn’t have long.

Hurrying down the hall, Oliver ignores the water that now sprinkles down from above and that splashes at the soles of his boots. He slips into De Luca’s room, silent and deadly, and wakes the man in a matter of seconds with some smelling salts he’d snatched earlier – but not until after he’s slipped a bug in the man’s phone.

De Luca wakes with a snap, jolting halfway upright before sinking back against his pillows. It takes him a moment to work out the Arrow’s silhouette in the dark. His mouth opens, but whether to scream or speak Oliver will never know.

He’s already carefully placing a blade against De Luca’s throat, silencing him.

“Scream for help,” the Arrow says, harsh and commanding, “and I’ll make sure you never talk again.” He may have stopped killing people, but that doesn’t mean that the vigilante isn’t still known for being brutal at times. De Luca’s here, after all, isn’t he?

De Luca quickly snaps his mouth shut. Oliver pulls back the knife enough that he can speak without too much worry.

“Your contact in the Bertinelli family. Who is it?”

De Luca was chosen for his civilian lifestyle and lack of criminal record. They’d wanted someone that no one would look twice at. They hadn’t chosen him for his bravery. De Luca gives him a name.

Seconds later, Oliver’s slipping out at the end of the hall as the sprinkler shuts off and the officer returns to her post, none the wiser about his visit.

* * *

“Samuel Barrone,” Felicity says, the moment Oliver fully enters the foundry basement. “Thug, lowlife, thief. Arrested twice as a teenager for possession, got off both times – probably thanks to the fact that his father is a cop. Spent two years in prison for petty theft, been suspected of a few things since but never arrested. Also a person of interest in the Bertinelli family.”

“Low level,” Diggle confirms, looking sympathetic.

Oliver had thought he’d recognized the name. Someone they’d already known about then, and someone without much connection to the upper levels. But that doesn’t mean Oliver’s visit to De Luca was a waste of time.

“Not as low as we thought,” he counters, setting down his bow and unstrapping his quiver. “Otherwise –”

Felicity picks up the threat of his thought. “Otherwise they’d never trust him to be De Luca’s contact!” she finishes in a burst of excitement, spinning back to her computers and quickly digging into a more thorough search on Barrone.

Oliver shares a glance with Diggle and it almost feels like old times, until Diggle looks away again with a regretful quirk to his lips and the awkwardness returns.

“See what you can find,” Oliver requests, and goes to change.

* * *

* * *

_October 27, 2013, afternoon:_

“Dr. Anderson, thank you for agreeing to meet with us today.”

“Oh, it’s no problem,” Anderson replies with a warm, wide grin and a firm handshake, letting go of Laurel’s fingers to turn to Jo next. “I heard you were here on behalf of one of my patient’s family members and I wanted to make sure we could get to the bottom of what, exactly, is going on here. It’s the least I could do.”

Laurel wants to punch him in his smug face. Well, his gut would be better, because she knows the tiny bones in her hand are very breakable and the human skull is very hard, but it’s his smug face that’s calling her attention right now. Brown eyes twinkle behind rectangular frames; it looks like warmth and friendliness at first glance, but Laurel’s been a lawyer long enough to recognize the emotion on his face for what it really is. Interest. Intrigue. And pure, smug, arrogant ruthlessness.

He thinks they’re nothing, nobody lawyers from a non-profit who don’t stand a chance against him. It amuses him, to have them approaching him with their concerns. It had been so, so tempting to call him _Mr._ Anderson but Laurel had already committed herself to being on her best behavior today. If someone loses their temper today, if he leaves this meeting realizing that he’s bitten off more than he can chew, he won’t be able to say anything against her or Jo.

 _The least he could do_. Laurel holds back a scoff. He’d been curious, or perhaps just under the mistaken impression he could buy them off. Or worse, that he could vaguely threaten them into dropping the case.

She could drop a thinly veiled comment about how hard it was to get a hold of him, or about the serious accusations that are being leveled against him. She smiles instead, taking a seat as he gestures for them to do so. (The seats aren’t uncomfortable but they’re just barely noticeably low. At least, compared to his own on the other side of the desk. Tommy and Oliver’d told her about that technique, back when all three of them were children and Tommy and Oliver hadn’t quite understood what their parents were involved in.)

“I don’t want to press too much,” she says demurely, hating herself for the act but understanding its necessity. “I know our inquiries aren’t strictly related to your volunteer work here at the clinic.”

Anderson waves her faux concerns aside. “I understand doing your due diligence. I do regret that we couldn’t have had this meeting elsewhere, but the hospital’s lawyers are understandably reluctant to have the staff meeting with the enemy.” He grins and shrugs with a ‘what can you do’ sort of apology.

Like hell it’s the hospital lawyers who’d been the most against this meeting. Laurel stiffens slightly at the blatant lie – but she isn’t supposed to _know_ it’s a lie. Thankfully, Jo is so much better than she is at schmoozing up to the arrogant clients.

“We appreciate it nevertheless,” she says efficiently, with no small amount of charm. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time. Especially since you’re just a volunteer here.” She’s not flirting – her words are too quick for that – but there’s a compliment in her tone. If Laurel didn’t know better, she’d almost say that Jo actually meant it.

Anderson reacts predictably to the words.

“Anything to help a client,” he says warmly, acting like he really means it when Laurel knows he really means, _anything to help myself_.

( _Am I only reading into this because he’s on the List?_ she wonders briefly to herself for a moment. _Am I misinterpreting the situation?_ But as he gazes down at them from his seat across the desk, telling them to feel free to ask any questions that occur to them, her doubts vanish. No, he really is that much of an arrogant jerk. She’d be able to see that with or with the Arrow’s list (Malcolm’s list) backing her up.)

She leans in slightly, and only holds herself back from leaning too much at the last moment – she doesn’t want to seem too forceful. “Thank you,” she says again, ready to get started, and she can’t really say whether or not she hopes her grin isn’t showing too many teeth.

* * *

“Well,” Jo says plainly, face blank. “That was…”

“Useless?” Laurel asks, scowling, aware that her friend is still processing the smarmy encounter but too frustrated to check in with her. “A waste of time?”

“I was going to say really, really draining. That was like… like dealing with the ten worst rich guy clients I’ve ever had. All at once.”

Laurel shoots her a look. “So you didn’t buy the act?” Not that she’d thought Jo would, or had, from the way she’d been acting but… Well, she doesn’t _really_ have any doubts but she still wants to make sure her judgements aren’t just all in her head.

Jo scoffs. “No lawyer worth their salt would have – and you know what, I think he wanted us to know it was an act. What do you imagine next time we see him he’ll act like a complete monster, show us who he really is?”

“Like he wasn’t a monster already,” Laurel replies, but her heart warms at Jo’s words. _‘Next time we see him’._ They hadn’t actually made another appointment with Anderson. He’d gotten more frustrated as time had passed and they’d shown no intention of stopping their detailed line of questioning. In an effort to piss him off even further, it had been _very_ detailed. They’d started with his background, all the way back to med school, and they hadn’t cared whether or not the questions they’d been asking were ones that could have been answered simply by looking at his JoinedIn profile.

 _“Is this really necessary?”_ he’d asked after a little while, a tightness to his smile that hadn’t been there when they’d started the interview.

 _“Just establishing a character background,”_ Jo had replied easily, acting unphased.

They’d left without any real information, and without a future appointment, but while still making it clear to Anderson that they weren’t dropping the case. Laurel’s glad to hear that Jo had meant that, that the afternoon hasn’t dissuaded her.

And besides, they do have background information on the man now that would have been hard to find elsewhere. It’s a start, however slim.

“I hear that,” Jo replies wearily. “Drinks tonight?”

Laurel absolutely does not care that it’s a Sunday, but… “My place,” she volunteers, just to be on the safe side. There’s every possibility she’s going to want to get very drunk.

Jo readily agrees.

* * *

* * *

_October 28, 2013, morning:_

Tommy works nights, Laurel works days. Usually he’s fast asleep in the bed beside her when she wakes up in the morning and he leaves before she goes to bed each night. Last night, Sunday night, had been a night like any other. He’d slept in till noon and they’d lazed around the apartment all day – for once she’d had no plans that weekend – before ordering takeout for dinner. At seven he’d kissed her goodbye and headed out to work again. She’d watched a bit of TV then turned in herself. Nothing unusual.

But now it’s Monday morning, and Tommy isn’t lying in bed beside her. A sleepy frown creeps over Laurel’s face from where she lies bundled in warm blankets. A quick swipe of her fingers and a few light touches and the phone in her hand is unlocked. She double- and triple-checks, but there are no new messages. It’s not the first time Tommy’s had a late night though – or late morning, given the time – so Laurel forces herself to abandon the warmth of her blankets and get ready for the day.

Sometimes, Tommy will just stay out and get breakfast with Oliver in the mornings, and Thea’s been working at Verdant for a while now so maybe he’s hanging out with her. But he usually texts her. Laurel shoots him a quick text before stepping into the shower. By the time she’s heading out the door there’s still no answer.

 _Is he still fighting with Oliver?_ she worries. _Or is it me he doesn’t want to talk to._ Her boyfriend’s been on edge lately, but Laurel’s fairly certain that she’s not the cause of the tension she’s seen in him. In fact, she’s got it pinpointed down to two topics of conversation that he’s been more or less avoiding these days: Oliver and the Arrow. He’s never liked the Arrow, never liked her association with the vigilante, so that somewhat makes sense at least, even if he’s more relaxed about it than he used to be. But with Oliver… Laurel still doesn’t know why they’re arguing, and neither of them will tell her.

Thea doesn’t know either. She’s asked. _And thinking of Thea…_ Laurel shoots the other woman a quick text before she starts her car. (Tommy’s car isn’t in his spot, but of course it wouldn’t be if he hadn’t come home.)

By the time she gets to work Thea hasn’t responded either.

 _Stop worrying,_ Laurel tells herself. _Thea works nights now too. She’s probably sleeping._ She calls Tommy again before pulling the key from the ignition and heading in to work, trying to convince herself she’s overreacting.

An hour later, Laurel breaks down and calls Oliver.

“ _Queen_ ,” he answers with a laugh, a carefree tone that tells Laurel that he hadn’t looked at his phone before answering and that she _really_ doesn’t want to know what he was in the middle of. Oliver being Oliver. (It’s a trace of his old self that somehow rings false in the back of her mind, but she doesn’t give herself the opportunity to dwell on that.)

“Hey,” she says, pushing down the anxiety in her gut once again. “You and Tommy have a long night last night?”

In the pause that follows she can almost see the way new-Oliver’s face flickers slightly in confusion, nothing like the scrunched-up look of befuddlement that the old Oliver would have had. “ _Tommy?”_ he asks. “ _You mean at Verdant? I didn’t go in last night, you’ll have to talk to Thea. Why?_ ”

Laurel has to push down her anxiety again when it rears up at Oliver’s words. She fakes a laugh. “Oh, it’s probably nothing. I’ll just call Thea then, thanks.” She hangs up before Oliver can say anything more but if he’s doing what she thinks he’s doing then he’s probably too distracted to care. Pressing a few quick buttons on her screen instead, Laurel dials Thea.

It rings for far too long but eventually the other woman does pick up with a groggy, “ _Queen here._ ”

Laurel’s anxiety eases only minutely. She’d been right, Thea had been sleeping. “Hey, Thea. Sorry to call you so early, I know you probably got home from work only a few hours ago.”

Thea groans. “ _Ugh, don’t remind me. Sometimes I can’t believe I used to pull all-nighters regularly._ ”

Despite herself, Laurel laughs. “You’re only eighteen, talk to me when you’re older. And after you’ve gone to law school.”

Thea returns her laughter, sounding slightly more awake. _“So why are you calling? Did I forget about lunch or something?”_

“No, no – you know it’s not even nine in the morning yet, right?”

Thea groans again, mock distress emanating from Laurel’s speakers.

“Actually, I was calling about Verdant. Did you have any troubles last night?”

_“Are you kidding me, Tommy didn’t say?”_

Laurel swallows. “No, not yet. Why, what happened?”

“ _I saw my first drug deal. That, you know, I wasn’t actually a part of. Tommy told me to call the cops but the guy didn’t exactly want to go quietly. Man, you should have seen him – there’s a reason drug dealers aren’t supposed to sample their own product, especially not on the job. Guy went nuts. It took three officers to restrain him.”_

If she’s being honest, Laurel would be more sympathetic if she wasn’t so worried about Tommy. But she is, so she responds to Thea’s story with a distracted, “Uh huh. How did Tommy take it?”

 _“Not really sure,”_ Thea says, tone making Laurel think the other woman is shrugging at the moment. _“It was near closing so Tommy offered to head down to the station and give a statement. Said he’d head home afterward. Why? He alright?”_

For a moment, Laurel thinks about lying. About saying that everything’s fine, he’s just in a bit of a mood. She doesn’t want to get anybody worked up over what might be nothing. Maybe Tommy’s still at the station. Maybe he headed back to Verdant afterward to clean up or finish up some paperwork. Maybe he had a meeting with Mrs. Montgomery this morning that he’d forgotten to mention to her. But Laurel’s instincts are screaming that things _aren’t_ alright, and she can’t keep her feelings bottled up inside her. She needs to tell someone.

“I don’t think he came home last night.”

Silence for a moment. _“What?”_

“Tommy. He wasn’t there when I woke up and he’s not answering my texts.”

“ _Oh, yeah, the drug dealer broke his phone in the scuffle, but… I just figured he’d told you that…?”_

Laurel shakes her head despite knowing fully well Thea can’t see her. If Tommy had come home he probably would have, but he hadn’t come home. “Do you think he’s still at the station?”

 _“Closing’s at three,”_ Thea says. _“He left at, like, two thirty. I don’t think…”_

“It wouldn’t take six hours for them to process his statement,” Laurel finishes, closing her eyes. Something _is_ wrong.

_“Not unless…”_

“What?”

_“Well, there was that one time your dad, uh, had Verdant investigated?”_

Despite what Thea’s insinuating, Laurel’s heart lifts slightly. Her dad’s okay with Tommy now, but the idea that Tommy might still be at the station because the police suspect him of being an associate of the drug dealer is infinitely more preferable than the myriad disasters her mind has been throwing at her. “Right. Do you know the name of the arresting officer?”

_“Sorry, I didn’t even think…”_

“No, that’s alright. I wouldn’t expect you to. I know the closest station to Verdant though, I’ll head over on my break.”

 _“I’ll meet you there,”_ Thea offers.

“You don’t have to –”

_“You already woke me up, at least let me tag along.”_

Laurel closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. It’d be nice, to have Thea’s support, even if it turns out that Tommy is just being held late at the station or trying to get over another argument with Oliver. She cracks. “What time can you get here?”

* * *

With the tension still lingering in the foundry basement these days and the knowledge of Tommy’s disapproval radiating from the floor above him, Oliver’s been avoiding Verdant even as Thea settles into her place there and Roy starts a job as a bouncer. He’s checked in a few times over the weeks since Thea’s started but he uses the side door almost exclusively now and has spent far too much time lately working out and training in his secondary base instead.

When Laurel calls asking if something had happened at Verdant last night with Tommy, anxiety clear in her voice even as she’d shrugged off his concerns, Oliver has no idea what she’s talking about. It’s not a good feeling, and he plans to head for Verdant as soon as possible without breaking too many traffic laws. He’d actually gotten in four hours of sleep between the time he’d gotten home to when Laurel had called, which is the most sleep he’s gotten in one go for weeks. Feeling guilty at that, when clearly something had happened at Verdant last night that he’d missed, he throws on his leather jacket and fetches his motorcycle from the garage.

Hopefully it’s nothing major. Tommy’s just been having a hard time with all of Oliver’s secrets and lies. Maybe the mood Laurel had been picking up on was nothing more than that.

At Verdant, Oliver parks normally – his personal bike is not the same bike he uses as the Arrow, after all – and heads through the main entrance. The cleaning staff have come and gone, so there’s no one to question his appearance, or ask where he’s going as he heads for the basement. Security footage is accessible from the main office, at least the bare bones of the system, but there’s more of it that can only be accessed from the basement and the computer equipment is better downstairs too. Oliver pulls it up with practiced ease and scans through it all. A half hour later he spots Tommy leaving with a couple of cops and a drug dealer in handcuffs just before closing.

A neat little explanation. Laurel had asked if something had kept him and Tommy late at Verdant and here’s his reason for that: Tommy hadn’t gotten home on time because he’d gone to the police station, presumably to give a statement. He clearly hadn’t even been a suspect or person of interest, because he’d even driven his own car. Oliver closes out the footage. But… why then had Laurel been calling to ask? Why wouldn’t Tommy have just told her?

Something doesn’t feel right about the situation. Oliver replays the phone call in his mind. _“You and Tommy have a long night last night?”_ she’d asked, as though she hadn’t already known the answer. Why wouldn’t she have known? The incident had nothing to do with the Arrow, nothing to do with Oliver. There was no reason for Tommy not to have told her.

Unable to shake the feeling in his gut even while part of him wonders if his paranoia is going overboard, Oliver pulls up the footage again. After three more careful viewings Oliver learns that Tommy’d broken his phone during the encounter but little else. It’s just a drug dealer, just three uniformed cops who’d arrested him, just Tommy talking casually with the lead on the case and offering to go with him – _maybe even to press charges for assault,_ Oliver revises his earlier theory. He speeds through the rest of the footage from the night again, following Tommy, wondering if there was something else that had happened, but there’s nothing.

It’s not the first drug dealer they’ve caught at Verdant, not even the first scuffle either he or Tommy (or both of them) have been involved in at the club, though the bouncers usually handle that. Why hadn’t Tommy told Laurel?

Oliver’s first instinct is to just call Tommy and ask him, though that makes him feel somewhat as if he’d been intruding into his friend’s life after Tommy has been so carefully avoiding him. Not that it matters – Tommy’s phone is broken, after all, and nobody has landlines anymore. Oliver fidgets where he sits, feeling the tension in his muscles. He shakes his head. He’s overreacting. There’s nothing wrong. Right?

Shoving himself away from the computers, Oliver stands, every bone in his body crying out for action. He wants a fight, wants to hit the streets. It’s barely past ten in the morning, the sun shining brightly overhead, even if he can’t see it from the basement. Oliver’s fingers clench into a fist, aching to punch something, the he takes a deep breath and uncurls them again. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and feels the tension leave his body. He still wants to punch something, but he waits until he’s clear headed again, muscles unwound, before he reopens his eyes.

 _Think about this logically_ , he tells himself. Laurel had implied that she hadn’t known whether or not Tommy had had a late night, which further implies that either she hadn’t seen him yet, or he was still sleeping. The former is more likely, because if Laurel was truly worried, she probably would have just woken up Tommy to ask him. Tommy’d left Verdant at a little after two-thirty and the nearest station is a ten- or fifteen-minute drive away. Oliver sits back down at the computers, methodical. It’s probably nothing, but this is Tommy. He needs to be sure.

Felicity has a backdoor into the SCPD computers at every station in the city, thanks to many long weeks of careful coding and a few key bugs planted directly into their systems courtesy of Oliver. He navigates to the station in question and sorts through their records from last night. The drug dealer’s name is Gilbert Bateman, he’s still sitting in a cell as he sobers up, and Tommy’d finished filing charges for assault. Nothing unusual there. ( _See,_ Oliver tries to tell himself. It doesn’t work.)

He switches over to the cameras and scans through those too. Tommy arrives at two forty-three, leaves almost an hour later. He heads straight for his car, gets into it, and then pulls away. Nothing had happened, everything had seemed to have gone according to normal procedure.

_But then where is Tommy now?_

Oliver shakes his head. Laurel had never actually said that Tommy hadn’t gone home and before he starts jumping to conclusions he needs to be sure. He pulls out his phone and dials. Laurel doesn’t pick up.

Well, he had put on an act last time she’d called. Maybe she just doesn’t want to deal with him at the moment. But there are other things he can do, other things he can check, other places Tommy might have gone. He mentally debates calling Felicity – he can run an algorithm, but she’s the one who writes them – but she’s at work at the moment. She wouldn’t appreciate being called in for what might turn out to be a false alarm.

Turning his head, Oliver eyes the costume displayed beside him. Felicity and Tommy together had gotten this mannequin for him. Now he’s barely talking to either of them.

It’s too early (or too late) to hood up, but that doesn’t mean he can’t hit the streets. Grabbing his motorcycle helmet and keys, Oliver heads out.

* * *

* * *

_October 28, 2013, night:_

With Diggle beside him, the first of the three of them to get to the foundry that night, Oliver had turned on the news as they’d waited for Felicity’s arrival. Maybe, just maybe, there would be a hint of something wrong in that evening’s report that could point him toward Tommy. But so far the newscasters have only discussed a local convenience store that’s been selling fraudulent lottery tickets and the upcoming Halloween celebrations on Friday. They’ve moved onto a deadly car crash that had taken place in the middle of downtown this afternoon – _“Names of the victims have not yet been released”_ – when Oliver hears the door at the top of the stairs open.

“What’s wrong?”

Felicity is barely even in the foundry and she’s can already tell that something is wrong, something different than the tension that’s filled them lately.

Well, she’s spent months down here with him and Diggle, learning a new normal with the two of them. It’s not a surprise she can tell that normal has been disrupted even if things have been off kilter for the last few weeks.

“Tommy,” Oliver answers shortly. “He’s missing.”

Oliver stands and steps away from the work he’d been doing at the computers. Thanks to his ARGUS training, he’s good with computers. Felicity will always be better.

“Missing?” Felicity asks in alarm and surprise, quickly sliding into her chair. “What do you mean missing?”

“Oliver means that no one’s seen him since around three this morning,” Diggle says, tone accusatory. He hadn’t liked finding out about it hours after the fact and, from the way her expression shifts, Felicity’s not too pleased either.

“And you’re just now telling us?” she asks incredulously.

But Oliver couldn’t care less about how displeased Diggle and Felicity are. It’s not about them. It’s about the fear in his gut and the ache in his heart and the fact that _Tommy_ is missing. His best friend since childhood, who’d traveled halfway around the world on the slightest possibility that Oliver might still be alive almost three years after _he’d_ gone missing.

“You were at work,” he answers shortly, “and we can’t be sure anything happened.” He’s got confirmation that Tommy never came home, but that’s not confirmation that he’s missing. Oliver doesn’t really care about that either. He knows in his gut that he is. Maybe it’s just his pessimism, his paranoia, but Oliver won’t be persuaded otherwise until he sees Tommy safe and sound. This morning he’d been uncertain, hadn’t had enough information. It’s evening now.

“He’s been missing for over _twelve hours_! I think that’s reason enough to think –”

“Tommy isn’t comfortable with the secrets I’ve been keeping from him,” Oliver cuts in. “It’s possible he’s just taking a break.” _Possible,_ his brain tries to tell him, _consider all the possibilities first_. It’s his training, his logical mind speaking. His heart, on the other hand (what is left of that shattered and broken thing in his chest) tells him Tommy is in trouble and screams at him to find his best friend.

“A break from Laurel too?” Diggle asks skeptically.

Oliver concedes the point with a nod. _Calm,_ he tells himself, _logic_. He falls back on his training because he can’t give in to his emotions. He refuses to. He needs focus. He needs to make rational decisions. “Which is why we’re looking into it.”

“Only after you waited, oh, let’s see, the entire day!?”

Oliver stiffens but doesn’t argue back. What do she and Diggle think he’s been doing the entire day? Sitting around and waiting for them? Oliver had tracked Tommy from Verdant to the police station, then calculated his probably routes from there – for if he’d gone home, or back to Verdant, or even to some of his favorite breakfast places. Careful searching had revealed no pertinent 911 calls from any of those streets, no mentions of car accidents or even abandoned cars being towed.

Expanding his search to nearby streets had yielded similar results. That idea exhausted, it had been a simple enough matter to distract the security guard that minded the booth at the parking garage adjacent to Laurel and Tommy’s building and check the footage there. That had only confirmed Oliver’s suspicions – Tommy had never made it home.

By the time he’d returned to the foundry after that it had been early afternoon – Tommy had been missing for almost twelve hours and while Oliver had eliminated several possibilities, he’d still had no leads. He’d called Laurel back as Oliver Queen, formally learned his best friend was missing, and offered to help.

She’d thanked him politely, said that Thea was keeping her company, and promised to let him know if anything changed. She’d tried to dismiss it as nothing, Tommy going back to his old ways, but Oliver had heard the worry in her tone. It was the same worry he’d boxed up and shoved to the back of his own mind, refusing to let it out, refusing to let emotions stop him from doing what he needed to do.

So he’d gotten out his motorcycle and traced the routes himself, looking for anything amiss and making careful mental notes of the traffic cameras he’d seen along the way.

Now it’s early evening, and Diggle and Felicity are here, and it is _just_ dark enough out for Oliver to put on the hood.

“I need you to search traffic cam footage,” Oliver says instead of responding, ignoring Felicity’s ire. “The routes are already mapped. Then check Tommy’s credit cards, make sure he didn’t just cut contact and skip town.” As he speaks, he starts to take the Arrow’s uniform off its mannequin.

“Where are you going?” Diggle asks, half curious, half accusatory.

“Someone knows something,” Oliver answers roughly. He doesn’t stick around to detail his plans further, heading to the bathroom to change.

* * *

The darkness that coats the city in the post-dusk hours is barely noticeable to Oliver. His brain notices every twitch in the shadows, every small sound on the streets. His senses are on high alert and his mood fraught. But he can’t let on to that fact. He can’t let anyone come to the conclusion that Tommy Merlyn being missing means anything serious to the Arrow. Both of the local snitches he interrogates after leaving the foundry are shaky and frightened when he’s done with them, but intact. He doesn’t break any fingers or twist any arms. Neither of them has spilled a drop of blood.

Oliver could have been harsher, but he doesn’t honestly believe they know anything and he’s not jeopardizing Tommy’s future over any of his actions tonight. (Because Tommy _will_ have a future, and Oliver wouldn’t be doing him any favors by linking him to the Green Arrow.)

He’s in the midst of an internal debate as to whether or not he should involve Roy in this when his phone – the Arrow’s phone – rings. Laurel.

Oliver Queen is not the Green Arrow and thus the Green Arrow has no idea that Tommy Merlyn is missing and wouldn’t actually care all that much if he did. At least, not any more than he would for anyone else.

After taking the briefest of seconds to push his emotions aside, the Arrow answers the phone. “Yes?” he growls out shortly, the phone’s software altering his voice for him without the need of a synthesizer.

 _“I… I know I haven’t called since you gave me this but… I need your help.”_ Laurel’s tone becomes more confident, more determined, as she speaks. Her words start out as a hesitant request and end as a demand.

“With what?”

_“There’s too much to say over the phone, can we meet?”_

_‘Too much to say’_? Oliver’s not sure what that means. Does she know something about Tommy’s disappearance that she hasn’t told him?

He wonders if there’s been a ransom demand and Laurel has been told not to contact the police. _You’re getting ahead of yourself_ , his logical mind snaps at him. Oliver pushes down his emotions again, ignoring the ache in his heart that can only think of Tommy.

He is the Arrow. He needs to act like it.

“The alley off of Starlight, between Bush and Coral,” the Arrow answers shortly. “Ten minutes.” He hangs up the phone.

Laurel and Tommy’s apartment building is on Starlight, two blocks east of Bush. If she’s home, it’ll only be a short walk for her, and the neighborhood is nice enough – well-lit enough – that there should be no reason for her to worry for her safety. (Not with him nearby.) In the meantime, he has a few traffic laws he’s going to need to break.

* * *

Night has long since settled over Star City, creeping over the buildings, infecting corners and alleys first. Oliver gets to the alley he’d named on the phone first and settles into the shadows at the edge, where he can see Laurel’s approach down Starlight. It doesn’t take her long.

 _You don’t know about Tommy_ , he reminds himself. The Arrow has no idea why Laurel called him, what she might want from him. He’s spent his night so far investigating vague rumors of abductions – no names mentioned. But Oliver does know, and he’s forgotten how to act. Would the Arrow be short with Laurel? Displeased at being summoned?

He doesn’t know, he doesn’t even really care. This is Tommy they’re talking about, and if Laurel’s willing to share things with the Green Arrow that she doesn’t feel like telling Oliver Queen then Oliver will do whatever it takes. (Tommy’d flown halfway around the world for him, no training, no backup. This is the very least Oliver can do.)

So he waits only a moment as Laurel glances around in the darkness, then steps forward and draws her eyes to him.

“What do you want from me?” he growls out, attempting to go for curious rather than demanding.

Laurel stiffens slightly in surprise but doesn’t flinch. “I need you to find a missing person,” she says strongly, more of a demand than a request. “After everything I’ve done for you, everything I’ve gone through, you owe me that much.”

Oliver knows that if it wasn’t Tommy, if Laurel was just calling for help on another case, another scumbag the law couldn’t tackle, she would not have been nearly so confrontational. Not to him, not after the violence she’s seen in the Arrow. But it is Tommy, and he knows Laurel, so he can see the stress in the lines of her face and read the tension in the movements of her body. She’s worried sick and frightened he might turn her down, so she’s not giving him the chance to say no.

She doesn’t know that Oliver could never say no, not with the possibility of Tommy in danger.

“Who is it?”

“My boyfriend, Tommy Merlyn. You’ve met him before.” Laurel’s words are defiant, daring him to stand against him, daring him to say no. She has no idea that the Arrow’s mission has always been personal, all she knows is that Star City’s vigilante targets the rich and the corrupt in between tackling street crime. The disappearance of Tommy Merlyn fits neither of those scenarios, and his father was the one who tried to level the Glades, after all.

“When did you see him last?” the Arrow asks, tilting his head as if he is considering giving in without committing to anything. Even with Tommy missing – especially with Tommy missing – he can’t give Laurel any hints as to his identity. Now is not the time for her to discover how Oliver Queen spends his nights.

Laurel tells him everything he already knows. She tells him about the fight at Verdant, about Tommy going to the police station, about him filing assault charges, and about him vanishing without a trace afterwards. Then she tells him something he doesn’t know.

“He’s received a few death threats,” she says, and Oliver feels his heart stutter in his chest. “We kept the ones that seemed the most serious.” And she holds out a flash drive.

It shouldn’t be that surprising. Queen Manor has gotten his fair share of hate mail in the aftermath of what Glade residents are calling the miniquake. Oliver’s let Diggle handle it, for the most part, so that Thea doesn’t have to see it, but Laurel’s the daughter of a cop _and_ a lawyer. It makes sense that she’d catalogue and keep track of everything in case something happens.

And now something has happened. There’s no telling if the information Laurel’s gathered will be of any help, but it’s a new lead to investigate, something Oliver hadn’t had before.

Except he _isn’t_ Oliver right now, he’s the Arrow.

“This is what the police are for,” he responds calmly. His hands itch to reach forward, but he holds them carefully still by his sides.

Laurel’s fingers tighten around the plastic in her hand. “You know my dad’s a cop,” she says plainly. “They’re looking into it. But I also know there’s a difference between what they’re capable of doing, and what you can do.”

The Arrow waits a moment longer, then gives in to Oliver’s desires. He takes the flash drive.

“I’ll look into it,” he says.

Laurel swallows, then stares directly into the darkness beneath the Arrow’s hood. “Find him,” she says. “Please.”

She doesn’t know the Arrow, not really, doesn’t have a clue that Oliver is the one behind the mask. But she loves Tommy, so she’ll ask this violent stranger for help with everything she has. If Oliver didn’t know Laurel, didn’t know Tommy, if he was just a random vigilante and she just a random civilian who helped him from time to time, he wonders how he would take her request – her demand. He knows he can’t promise her anything, not because he isn’t going to give it his all when it comes to finding his best friend, but because he knows how many different ways things can go wrong.

You aren’t supposed to make promises like that.

Still, her plea is compassionate and moving and clearly heartfelt. Even if Oliver hadn’t known her, he thinks the Arrow would have been willing to help regardless.

It doesn’t really matter. This is Tommy. Oliver, too, will do whatever it takes.

* * *

Talking with the vigilante always used to rattle Laurel slightly, not just because of what she knew the man was capable of but also because of how she felt about it. Standing in the shadows and sharing information with a man she knew to be a killer in order to do good had always thrilled, excited, and frightened Laurel all at once. She’d approved of the end results but not always the means, wanted to help the vigilante’s goal but feared his methods at times.

That uncertainty is gone now, as she strides back to her apartment, replaced by another confusing mix of emotions that she doesn’t know what to do with. She feels both fearless – she’d faced down the Arrow and told _him_ what to do – and terrified – because Tommy is _missing_.

Her boyfriend’s absence has awoken a furious fire deep within her. Laurel feels ready and willing to take on the world and has been forced to face the realization of just how much she loves Tommy Merlyn. She’d already known she’d loved him, of course, they’ve even said the words, but this… This is something else entirely. This is a deeper sort of love, as deep and endless as the love she’d felt (still feels) for her sister.

The realization comes hand in hand with the knowledge of exactly how devastated she’ll be if something actually happens to Tommy. The fact that she doesn’t know _anything_ isn’t helping. She’s terrified because he could have been kidnapped for ransom or for revenge. He could be dead already. He could have just split town and given up on her, or maybe he was just in a car accident and he’s unconscious in a hospital somewhere as a John Doe. (The latter possibility is unlikely – she’d called around.) She doesn’t know, doesn’t have a single clue as to what happened to him.

Facing off against the Arrow is nothing compared to that, compared to the fire and the fear warring within her.

At the entrance to her apartment building, Thea and Roy stand anxiously waiting for her. (Thea’s offered to stay the night with her, taking over after Jo’s ‘shift’ at keeping Laurel company.) They’d both offered to come with her – and apparently Roy works with the vigilante, acts as his informant, tells him what’s happening on the streets in the Glades, and at another time Laurel would have been astonished by the information, would have tried to make sense of it and wonder why Thea hadn’t told her, or if she should have told Thea about her own connection sooner, but she doesn’t have the time for those thoughts – and Laurel had almost said yes, but she’d wanted to face the Arrow on her own.

On one hand, she hadn’t wanted to spook him. He’d agreed to meet her, and no one else. On the other, she’d also needed a moment to herself, after Jo’s careful hovering most of the day, replaced by Thea’s hovering not too long ago. A moment to let her exterior quietly fracture and her sorrows and fears seep forward from deep within her, escaping out into the night-time air. She’d taken that moment after the Arrow had left, then pulled herself back together and rebuilt her outer shell.

“How’d it go?” Thea asks, worriedly. Roy looks equally as concerned.

“Good,” Laurel says, “good. He, he said he’d look into it.” Until she says it out loud, conveys the information to the young woman who’s helped her through this since they’d found out about Tommy’s disappearance that morning, she hadn’t realized how much _relief_ it brings her, to know the Arrow will be looking into Tommy’s disappearance.

Thea takes her hand, squeezing tightly as they walk back inside and wait for the elevator. “It’ll be fine,” she promises. “He’ll be alright.” (Roy is holding himself tightly, tension etched in the lines of his body, and though Laurel barely knows him she recognizes enough to know he wants to leave. Based on the information she’s only just recently learned he’s probably itching to get out there and help the Green Arrow. She’s not ever sure that he’s spoken more than a few words to Tommy, and she knows that it’s for Thea’s sake that he’s so worked up, Thea’s emotions and Thea’s comfort, not hers or Tommy’s, but she’d touched nevertheless.)

Laurel gives Thea a look. Thea grimaces.

“Right, sorry. Now I know what everyone else felt like when they told _me_ that,” and Thea’s eyes flicker to the side – towards Roy – for the briefest of moments with a look that Laurel doesn’t have the time, or quite frankly the patience, to analyze. “But you’ve got the best people in Star City on the job. Your dad will make sure that the police do their best and, well, the Arrow tends to get results.”

Laurel believes her, she really does. Between her father and the Arrow she knows that Tommy will be found. But she can’t stop wondering about what’s already happened in the almost twenty hours Tommy’s been missing. What condition will he be in when they find him? (The question isn’t whether or not they’ll find him, it’s whether or not they’ll find him in time.)

“Thanks,” she says anyway, as they step into the elevator. Laurel pulls her hand out of Thea’s to press the button for her floor – for hers and Tommy’s floor and her heart aches at the thought and she pushes it aside. “And thanks for staying,” she continues, before the silence can get awkward between them.

“Of course,” Thea answers softly. “Whatever you need. I know Oliver called too…?” she trails off, raising an eyebrow in an unasked question.

Laurel shakes her head. “I appreciate having you over, and Jo earlier, but I don’t want… Company’s not, exactly, what I’m looking for right now.” She feels bad, of course, about rejecting Oliver’s offer to keep her company, but however solid her love for Tommy is there are still hints – memories, at the very least – of lingering feelings between her and Oliver. She’s one hundred percent certain that Oliver wouldn’t even so much as look at her in a way that could be conceived as romantic right now, but even that aside, having him there would remind her too much that Tommy isn’t. There were days and weeks and months during their childhoods when the two of them had been inseparable.

“I get it,” Thea says sympathetically. “Sometimes you just… don’t want to feel crowded.”

And Thea does get it. She’s lost a father and a brother, even if she’d gotten that brother back. And then Oliver had been kidnapped after barely having gotten home, even if only for a few hours. And then Walter Steele had been kidnapped, missing for months. And then her mother had been attacked by the Arrow. And then Roy had been in the Glades when Malcolm’s plan had gone into action. And then…

Well, the point is, Thea knows what it’s like to lose someone, and what it’s like to wonder if someone you love is going to make it home.

Inside their apartment, Thea pushes Laurel gently toward the couch as she heads to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Laurel crashes onto the piece of old, worn, and familiar furniture, full of adrenaline that has no outlet, as Roy hovers awkwardly between the two rooms. He looks vaguely out of place and unsure of himself – the thought flits through Laurel’s head, pointless and distracting, that it’s his first time in their apartment – but he also looks protective, like he wants to physically shield Thea, and by extension Laurel, from everything that’s happening.

If only he could.

She snatches up the remote and flicks on the TV instead of letting herself stare too long at him, worrying about Tommy, and switches to the news just as someone knocks on their door.

“Roy’s got it,” Thea calls out strongly, Laurel already half standing.

Roy hesitates, giving her a smile that’s more of a grimace, and Laurel sits down again as he moves to answer her door.

“Harper,” she hears her dad’s familiar voice filter in from the hallway, surprise overriding his concern for her (and for Tommy; they’re not close, but her boyfriend’s grown on Quentin). “What are you doing here?”

“He’s here with me,” Thea’s voice rings out from the kitchen. Every sentence the young woman has uttered today to anyone other than Laurel has sounded like she’s just daring someone to argue with her. _Pick a fight,_ she seems to be saying, _just see what happens._

Laurel can hear it in every word she says and see it in the set of her shoulders and the curve of her lips. Until today, Laurel had never really realized how strong Thea could be. Maybe, until today, Thea hadn’t either. (In between her own troubles and her drug problems and her car wreck and her community service and her mother’s actions, Thea has weathered hit after hit and grown all the stronger for it. And this is the first time she’s been in a situation where someone else is taking the hits and Thea’s standing by their side. Not that Thea hasn’t been affected by Tommy’s disappearance too – Laurel can hear it in every word she says.)

Regardless, Quentin doesn’t argue with Thea’s strong tone, or say anything more about Roy. He simply sweeps past the both of them and into the living room, two officers behind him. Laurel stands and falls into his waiting arms. He’s not here as a cop right now, however much the both of them wishes he could be.

Her father’s arms are strong and tight, encircling her as she buries her head into his shoulder. She doesn’t cry – knows she won’t until Tommy is found or… well, she doesn’t want to think about that. Won’t _let_ herself think about that. But she embraces her father’s protection, remembering a time when she’d thought him capable of anything.

She wishes she still believed that, wishes she didn’t know about the terrible things that could be happening to her boyfriend right now, wishes she didn’t know what it was like to live with the knowledge that a loved one was never coming home.

 _Not him too_ , she thinks fiercely, safe for a moment in her father’s arms. _I can’t lose him too._

After a moment, Quentin pulls back and gestures to the two officers hovering politely behind him. “They’re here to…” he starts.

“I know,” Laurel cuts him off, nodding in greeting at them. “The bedroom’s through there, if you want to start in there.”

They nod back and give father and daughter some space. Standard protocol. She knows Tommy didn’t run, but there still might be some hint as to his location in his belongings.

“I’ve got all the death threats he’s received,” she says, turning back to her father. She hadn’t given the Arrow her only copy, after all.

“Later,” Quentin promises solemnly. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m holding up,” she says. They both know it’s a non-answer, but Quentin takes it. Silence hovers between them, compassionate and understanding. They’re playing the waiting game now, and they both remember what that’s like.

The news that the _Gambit_ had capsized, the realization that Sara had been on it, the days the search and rescue crews had purportedly swept that part of the ocean and the hope that maybe, just maybe, Sara was floating in a lifeboat somewhere just waiting to be found.

“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours,” Laurel says after a moment. Almost twenty, by now, but not quite the standard waiting period for missing adults. (If there’s proof, of course, if there’s a reason to suspect foul play, there is no actual wait time to report to the police, not like television tends to portray it. But Tommy had just… gotten into his car and never come home. With cases like these, the police like to make sure it’s not simply a case of miscommunication.)

“Close enough,” Quentin responds gruffly.

She wonders briefly what kind of favors he had to pull in to start the search early for Tommy Merlyn – billionaire (well, millionaire now) playboy with a history of partying and a father who’d tried to destroy a section of the city. She doesn’t ask, but feels a wave of gratitude nevertheless.

“Unis are combing the parking garage too,” he continues. “If there’s something, we’ll find it.”

His words remind Laurel of her actions earlier that night. It’s not that she doesn’t believe her father, or that she doesn’t have confidence in Star City’s police department, she just… she’s not willing to leave anything to chance, and especially not to bureaucracy. She has to have all her bases covered, all possible searchers out looking.

Should she tell her father that, tell him that she asked the Arrow to look into things? She thinks she should, and she wants to, but not with the other officers in the apartment. _Later,_ she thinks, _after they leave._

The kettle whistles then, reminding Laurel that, even with the other officers there, she’s not alone, and Thea comes out a moment later with a steaming cup of tea. Laurel would kill for coffee at the moment, but she takes the mug gratefully, soaking in its warmth.

“Thanks.”

Thea smiles warmly back at her, lacing her now empty fingers through Roy’s hand at her side. “Anything you need,” she promises.

Laurel opens her mouth to speak but unexpected words cut her off. Until that moment she’d forgotten about the TV, let the newscasters’ words and the commercials’ jingles become nothing more than background noise, but her brain snaps to attention as it processes what they’re talking about.

 _“… the identity of the victims in today’s tragic accident,”_ the newscaster is saying.

Laurel’s gaze glues itself to the screen as she forgets the people around her and the mug in her hand and the world that exists outside this moment.

Pictures are put up on screen as the woman continues talking. Two men, one woman. Not Tommy. Laurel hadn’t thought it would be, but… it’s _not Tommy._ They’re talking about the car accident that happened downtown earlier that day (and Laurel’s shoulders have already relaxed in relief), the terrible wreck at an intersection that had backed up traffic for miles, killed three people, and injured several others. Laurel’s barely given it much thought, what with her own situation (with Tommy’s situation) but impossibly she recognizes one of the men on the screen.

_“… cause of the accident is still –”_

The TV clicks off. Laurel’s head jerks to the side to see that her father has picked up the remote.

“You don’t need to be thinking about that right now,” he says.

She swallows but agrees, nodding and letting him lead her back to a seat on the couch.

“Was that…?” Roy starts, confusion mixing into the already hesitant expression on his face. He stops talking at a look from her father.

Laurel thinks about calling Ollie for the hundredth time that day – has he heard the news yet? – but the last time she’d talked to him he’d said he was going to call around to some of Tommy’s old friends and she hasn’t heard from him since.

She takes a sip of the tea in her hands.

There’s nothing left for her to do now but wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of today's chapter! You've got a short wait this time, and then Chapter 19: According to Plan, should be up Oct. 30th.


	19. According to Plan

_October 30, 2013, early afternoon:_

Early afternoon on the day before Halloween finds Quentin fidgeting in the small kitchen in his apartment, wondering about whether he’d made the right decision in taking off work for the first time in a very long time. (Since the year after Sara’s death, actually, when his marriage with Dinah had gone to shit and he’d turned to the bottle.)

Working the late-night shift means that Quentin usually has a decent breakfast and a large lunch that functions as his dinner, grabbing take out or a burger during his shift to round out the day. Today, he has no appetite, can’t find a thing in his fridge that he wants to eat.

What he wants is to be there for Laurel. Her boyfriend, Tommy Merlyn, spoiled little rich kid grown up into a surprisingly generous young man, has been missing for over forty-eight hours now and, as far as Quentin knows, the police department is no closer to finding him then they were the night he went missing. Not that they’re keeping him in the loop regarding the ongoing investigation. He’s called on enough favors as it is, getting everyone so heavily involved on the same day of Merlyn’s disappearance.

Cursing, he lets the fridge door slam shut and pointedly does not think about the quaint little bar that’s open only a few blocks away. It’s two in the afternoon for god’s sake, his daughter’s boyfriend is missing, and he’s been sober for some time now!

He thinks about heading to Laurel’s instead, bringing her some food, but decides against that as well. He knows his daughter wouldn’t take being crowded very well and as far as he’s aware Queen’s staying with her for the time being. Not the older one but Thea, who’s grown close with Laurel ever since his daughter had managed to convince him to get her community service at CNRI after her drug charge. Or maybe it’s Jo’s shift right now. Either way, Laurel’s got someone keeping her company. She doesn’t need the reminder of what he can’t do right now.

She’s got just enough company to help her deal with the onslaught of energy that’s no doubt filling her at the moment. He’ll check in with her as the day goes on, but she doesn’t need another reminder that Merlyn’s still missing, or of how useless he is in the investigation.

But thinking of Laurel reminds him of something she’d said yesterday, when they’d been alone. Or, at least, not in the presence of any other officers of the law – Queen and Harper had been there, but apparently they’d already known the news.

Laurel had asked Star City’s resident vigilante for help. Once, Quentin might have cursed at _her_ for that, but, against all his carefully laid out plans in the beginning, he’s no longer trying to bring in the Star City’s Arrow. In fact, to his disbelief, he’d actually felt a bit of relief upon hearing that the Arrow had agreed to help look for Merlyn as well.

His first reaction had been mild shock – kidnappings weren’t the kind of thing that the Arrow usually dealt with, but maybe the guy felt like he’d owed Laurel something, or maybe he thought that Merlyn’s kidnapping had to do with the kid’s father’s plan to level the Glades and wanted to keep an eye on him – but he’d moved past that quickly enough, and into relief and agreement. He’d moved too quickly, he suspected, quicker than he should have, as an officer of the law.

But the Arrow has turned over one too many bad guys lately for him to feel like slapping cuffs on him anymore, even if he still recognizes that the guy is very, very dangerous. And the Arrow has resources and methods that the law doesn’t and can’t use.

Quentin glances at the clock on his stove again.

What the hell, he’s off the clock, isn’t he?

* * *

 

When a phone rings just after two in the afternoon, Felicity jumps at the sudden sound and even Diggle looks startled by the interruption. Oliver moves to the device quickly. It’s the Arrow’s phone ringing, off vibrate in the basement, and there are only four people not currently present that have the number. And three out of those four, if one of them is in fact his current caller, is likely calling with news about Tommy.

Catching a glimpse of the number on the screen – speed dial one – Oliver scoops up the slim device and answers the call in one smooth movement.

“Detective,” he says calmly, already working on stilling his heart. Quentin _might_ have information about Tommy, but he’s not officially part of the investigation. He might just be calling for the same reason Laurel had wanted to talk last night – to ask the Arrow for help.

_“Tell me what you need.”_

Oliver blinks. That… that had not been quite what he’d been expecting the man to say. Nowhere near the same ballpark, even. “What?”

_“Cut the crap. I know my daughter asked you to look into Merlyn’s disappearance. As someone who has a personal stake in the matter, I’m off the case. So you are going to bring me in on what you have.”_

“Detective.” Oliver’s tone preaches caution and restraint through the harsh growl of his artificially altered voice. It’s not that he’s against working with Lance, or that he doesn’t know the older man would probably be able to bring valuable insight into their investigation, but Lance has always been a man of the law. He might have warmed to the Arrow more than he had when he’d been trying to arrest him, but their interactions are still gruff and hesitant. The second Oliver puts a toe out of line again he knows the detective won’t hesitate to come after him.

_“That wasn’t a question,”_ Lance shoots back. _“This is police business you’re getting involved in. It isn’t some pre-emptive strike against the corrupt rich or taking down a mugger in action. This is a kidnapping.”_

Oliver hesitates and very carefully decides not to bring up the few other times the Arrow has been involved with a kidnapping. “You won’t like my methods, Detective.”

Lance snarls. _“Hell, I don’t like them now. But it’s been over forty-eight hours – hell, almost sixty hours – and we still don’t have a lead on Merlyn. I know the statistics. Best way to find the kid is to pool our resources. I know kidnappers, you don’t.”_

Not entirely true, but Lance does bring a perspective and decades of experience that Oliver doesn’t have, along with an army to back him up if it turns out Oliver isn’t enough. (Unlikely, given the rage and determination coursing through his system even now, but Oliver’s not going to take any chances with Tommy’s safety. This isn’t like the last time his friend had been kidnapped, when he’d been right there beside him, or the time before that, when he’d been the one doing the kidnapping. He has no idea of where Tommy is.)

_“You want to keep your operations a secret, fine,”_ Lance says into the silence, _“but I know Smoak’s working for you, at the very least. Tell me what you’ve got.”_

Oliver mutes the connection. “Lance wants to pool our resources,” he tells his teammates.

“He shows us his, we show him ours?” Felicity asks skeptically, before blanching at her own words.

Even Diggle looks startled. Lance has gotten more involved with the Green Arrow before, even accepted his help, but never so openly or brazenly.

Oliver turns to Felicity. “He thinks you’re helping me.” Thinks, not knows, judging from the slight hesitation when Lance had spoken, whatever his actual words had been.

Felicity and Diggle exchange glances. Diggle frowns, shakes his head, then meets Oliver’s gaze. “Up to Felicity,” he says.

Felicity hesitates. “What the hell,” she says, the swear bursting out of her. “For Tommy.”

Oliver nods once and sets the phone down on the table beside her computers, pressing a few quick buttons. “I’ve put you on speaker, Detective,” he says. The technology in the phone should muffle both of their voices but, given his suspicions, Lance will probably still be able to pick out Felicity’s voice. At the very least, he’ll be able to tell the difference between her and Oliver.

_“Tell me where you’re at,”_ Lance says. If he’s at all bitter at being put on mute, he got his rant out of the way while Oliver and his teammates were having their own discussion.

With one final glance at Felicity and Diggle, and after receiving nods from both of them, Oliver does. (The tension between the three of them isn’t entirely gone, not even now, but they’re in agreement about this, and Oliver’s not in the field. He has the time to consult them now, before making a choice.)

Quickly and succinctly he tells Lance about how they’d gone through the list of death threats Laurel had given them and turned up no leads. There are a few anonymous messages they haven’t traced yet that Felicity’s still working on, but, given that they’re handwritten notes, it’s unlikely that they’ll be able to connect them to actual people anyone soon. He tells Lance how they’d used traffic cameras to narrow down the area in which Tommy’s vehicle had last been seen – though he doesn’t tell him that Roy is searching that area for them right now. Maybe Lance knows about Roy’s involvement with the Arrow, given that Roy had been at Laurel’s with Thea when he’d called with the offer to help, maybe he doesn’t. Oliver’s not going to be the one to tell him.

He tells Lance about the lack of information on the streets and the lack of any disturbances reported along Tommy’s usual route home. Then he hesitates.

_“And?”_ Lance asks sharply. He’s been listening silently until that moment, absorbing everything.

Oliver glances at Felicity again. “I said you wouldn’t like my methods,” he says.

Felicity speaks up before he can stop her. “He’s just trying to protect me,” she says, with a glance Oliver’s way. “You did almost arrest me once.”

Lance takes a moment to process the altered voice from the phone and realize who’s speaking – and what it means regarding what Oliver had hesitated to tell him about. _“I’m off the clock,”_ he repeats. _“Whatever I hear… well, I didn’t hear it, got it? Nobody knows I’m still in contact with you and it’s going to stay that way.”_

Oliver’s still tense – Lance could use what he hears next to come after Felicity, promises or not – but this is for Tommy, and he knows Felicity and Lance feel similarly. Tommy is Lance’s daughter’s boyfriend, after all, and whatever Lance’s feelings for the Queens and the Merlyns have been in the past, he’s always been a good man.

“We’ve been keeping up to date on the SCPD’s investigation as well,” he says, and knows Lance will understand that to mean that Felicity has hacked her way into their servers.

Sure enough, Lance swears. _“That system’s supposed to be secure!”_

“Trust me,” Felicity responds, “nobody’s getting in the way I did.”

_“I’m supposed to believe you’re that good?”_

“Merlyn’s friends don’t know anything,” Oliver cuts in before Felicity can respond again, or before they can get into a debate over her qualifications. Lance had said he could handle their methods and they don’t have time to debate that. “And there’s no evidence in his financial history that he knew he was going to be going somewhere for a while.”

A moment passes, Lance no doubt reorienting himself back to their original topic of conversation. _“So what you’re saying is you’ve got nothing too.”_

“We know what it’s not, Detective,” Oliver shoots back strongly, anger flaring up.

_“Fine. What’s your next step?”_

Aside from waiting for Roy to come back with possible answers, there _had_ been something else the three of them had just been discussing.

“I need to speak with one of your prisoners,” Oliver says plainly. He pushes his anger back again so it doesn’t come across in his tone. Originally, he hadn’t been planning on asking Lance for assistance in the matter, but the detective had called them and it would go a lot easier with his help.

Even though he can’t see him, from the affronted huff that comes through the phone Oliver can picture Lance bristling. _“I don’t know what kind of partnership you think we have but there’s no chance in_ hell _I’m letting you near one of our prisoners. He’s in our custody now, you lost your chance –”_

“Detective,” Oliver interrupts calmly.

Lance snarls at him. _“What?”_

“Your daughter asked me to look into Thomas Merlyn’s disappearance. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

Silence for a moment. _“Ah,”_ Lance says, anger gone. _“That guy. You think he knows something about it?”_

“I find it rather convenient that Merlyn’s phone was broken hours before he went missing.”

Lance huffs in agreement. _“Point. But I’m still not letting you anywhere near the station. I’ll get someone to question him myself.”_

“Detective –” Oliver starts, tone rising again.

_“I know what I’m doing,”_ Lance snarls at him, _“and I’m not about to let you torture someone who’s on our watch. I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”_ And he hangs up the phone.

Oliver stares at the phone, frustrated but understanding. If this had been about anyone other than Tommy…

_You can’t let your emotions get to you,_ he tells himself. _Lance has been doing this for decades. He knows the right questions to ask._ But so does Oliver, and he’s having a hard time holding himself back right now.

“Felicity,” he says out loud, picking up the now silent phone and putting it in his pocket for now. Keeping it close.

“Right,” she says, spinning in her chair and switching monitors. “One interrogation room video coming right up.” A month apart and a room full of tension between them, but the three of them still know how the others operate, more or less.

In the meantime, as they wait for Lance to actually physically get to the station and set up the interview, they continue what they were working on before, sorting through possible enemies and searching for any hint that anyone knows anything about the high-profile kidnapping. The news stays on in the background, because by now the entire city is aware of Tommy’s disappearance (as the only son of the architect of the miniquake, people have a lot of opinions about Tommy Merlyn and his recent disappearance; it’s an even more popular topic of conversation than the List right now), but Oliver mostly ignores that. There have been a hundred comments wondering how well he’s handling his best friend’s disappearance on top of Ed Carlin’s death in a car accident two days ago and Oliver hasn’t responded to a single one.

(Because Ed Carlin is _dead_. Died on impact when his car was hit by another that blew through a red light in the middle of downtown Star City. Oliver knows he should be paying attention to that, knows he should be responding to the board, knows that the death of Queen Consolidated’s newest CEO – for less than a _month_ , and is there anything in Oliver’s life capable of going right? – is something Oliver Queen needs to comment on, but he doesn’t have the patience at the moment. Tommy comes first. Later. Later he can think about what this means and how to handle it, but not right now.)

Lance calls back about an hour later. Oliver puts the phone on speaker automatically this time.

_“I don’t care if you have a backdoor into our system, I don’t care if you already know everything, I don’t want to hear it,”_ Lance says without preamble. _“We questioned Bateman, someone paid him to break Merlyn’s phone but he didn’t even know Merlyn was missing. My bet says he has nothing to do with the kidnapping.”_

Based on the video he’d seen, the body language Bateman had displayed, that’s Oliver’s bet too. “But he had contact with the kidnappers,” he says, prompting.

_“Yeah,”_ Lance says. _“Burner phone in the mailbox.”_

“Was it mailed?”

_“What?”_

“The phone. Was it mailed or just left in the mailbox?” If it was mailed, then there’s an, admittedly slim, possibility of a paper trail, something to trace.

_“Left there…”_ Lance says, trailing off thoughtfully. _“That could help.”_

“How?” But Oliver already knows how even as he asks. He keeps talking before Lance can answer him. “Where does Bateman live?”

Felicity’s already clicking away. “2451 St. Paul Court,” she says quickly, pulling up their map. “Small house, big mortgage, no other residents listed.”

Lance huffs. _“Your girl’s right. And there’re no cameras on the street.”_

Oliver doesn’t bother to correct Lance’s comment about Felicity. His words say that their potential lead is a dead end but Lance doesn’t really sound all that broken up about it.

“What are you thinking?”

_“I’m thinking that if I left something in someone’s mailbox for them, I’d want to make sure they got it.”_

“Surveillance?” Oliver asks. He doesn’t see how that helps them. The police could canvass the neighborhood, talk to the residents about any suspicious vehicles around the time in question, but that’s no guarantee that they’d find anything and it’s not something the Arrow can help with. (And it would take far too long.)

_“St. Paul’s an old street,”_ Lance says. _“A lot of the houses there have been there for decades but the newer part of the street – barely a block from our pal’s house – is all commercial.”_

“And?” Oliver asks, letting his impatience seep into his tone. Lance wouldn’t expect anger from the Arrow, from a man who has no real association with Tommy Merlyn, but irritation? Impatience? Those he can and does let through. From the Arrow, Lance probably even expects it.

“There’s no parking on St. Paul,” Felicity cuts in, excited, as she moves around the map. “But Sherwood Drive is all residential and it has a perfect few of 2451 across the street. Technically, there’s no parking there either, but it isn’t the main street so people do it all the time.”

She shows them the map and, sure enough, Sherwood branches off from St. Paul almost directly across the street from Bateman’s residence.

_“I’m thinking parking tickets,”_ Lance says, vicious satisfaction in his tone.

“One step ahead of you, Detective,” Felicity says happily, pulling up a list on screen.

There are only two parking tickets from the day Bateman supposedly received the phone. One, a sales manager, father of three, with only a few parking and traffic violations to his name. The other a dockworker and life-time resident of the Glades with a few brushes with the law on his record. A little more digging solidifies Oliver’s suspicion that it’s the latter they probably need to be concerned with. Five minutes later they have a license plate.

It’s not something they ever would have gotten without Lance’s help but Oliver barely takes note of that. He’s too busy feeling the thrill of the hunt race through him, now that he’s finally got a target.

“I’ll let you know where this takes us, Detective,” Oliver promises almost absentmindedly, hanging up the phone.

Felicity grins up at him, victorious. “Give me an hour and I’ll tell you where in the Glades that car was last seen,” she promises.

Oliver smiles grimly back at her, aching for a fight. _We’re coming for you, Tommy._

“In the meantime,” Diggle says sharply, pushing back his chair and standing, “I’m gonna pick up a quick lunch – and we’re all gonna eat it.”

They all know who he’s directing his words toward, and it’s impossible to not notice the look he sends Oliver’s way, but Oliver only nods absently. Digg’s right and whatever he’s expecting from Oliver, this is one thing he’s not going to argue about. The last time he ate was some granola at six that morning and he’s going to need his energy for when they actually find Tommy. Diggle heads out, Felicity gets to work on the computers again, and Oliver continues sifting through Tommy’s potential enemies. There’s still the possibility that one of them is behind this, after all.

Fifteen minutes later, the Arrow’s phone rings again, this time with a different number flashing on the screen. Oliver answers it just as quickly as he had when Lance had called.

“Yeah?”

_“Found Merlyn’s car,”_ Roy responds equally as quickly, breathless with excitement. _“Parking garage on 34 th and Broadview. Looks untouched.” _

It’s the middle of the afternoon, not yet evening. Oliver can’t go there as the Green Arrow. (Well, he _could_ , and Oliver considers it, evaluates the options and possibilities, but it’s risky and they’re not that far gone yet. Lance is right. For the most part, the police know how to do their jobs.) Besides, Tommy’s not there, and Oliver doesn’t really expect to find anything in the car.

“Good job,” he says. “You might want to leave. Police will be there soon.”

Roy’s hesitant voice stops him before he can hang up. _“Listen, when you… when you find Merlyn…”_

“If I need you,” Oliver promises, “I’ll call.” He ends the conversation and turns to Felicity, watching him with hope in her eyes. “Parking garage on 34th and Broadview,” he repeats to her, since he hadn’t put the phone on speaker this time. “Start your search there and send the police.”

She nods, switching tracks easily. Finally, finally. They’re getting somewhere.

Together the three of them take distracted bites of the burgers and fries Diggle arrives with a few minutes later as they locate the car on camera. Bateman’s watcher – presumably Tommy’s kidnapper – disappears into the same area as the parking garage is in, free of cameras, unfortunately. Felicity maps out a grid around the area that _is_ monitored by cameras and fifty minutes after Bateman’s watcher arrives he leaves again, pulling out onto the streets of the Glades. There’s no visible sign that anything is different, but Oliver doesn’t expect there to be.

Not every street and intersection has a camera, and not every camera is one they have access too, but they manage to only occasionally lose the car, always finding it again, as they track its progress. Hours of progress, back and forth, sometimes the same streets several times, until the car leaves the view of one camera and never shows up in another, a blind spot boxed in on the map by the cameras that surround it.

“They’re trying to disorient him,” Diggle says, watching the footage of the car pass by yet again on the monitor in front of him as they go through the stitched together footage from start to finish.

_Or just have a little fun,_ Oliver thinks darkly. If they’re right, if Bateman’s watcher has Tommy in the trunk of his car (and why else would he circle the Glades so many times?), then Tommy had spent at least four hours trapped in the trunk of a car, unaware of what was going on, and they hadn’t even left the Glades. It could have been a nod to the kidnapper’s patience, something that suggests a high level of planning, or it could have been just a group of amateurs gleefully reveling over successfully pulling off their job by taunting their victim. It’ll make a difference which one it is, in the end, but for now Oliver doesn’t care which answer is the right one – they’ve got an area to search now. ( _Finally._ )

The car might have disappeared from view, but it’s boxed in by other cameras on other streets. Unless Tommy was transferred to yet another car and driven out of there – a possibility Oliver keeps in the back of his mind just in case – he’s somewhere in the few block radius they’ve narrowed it down to.

“Either Tommy was restrained,” he says out loud, keeping his tone even, “or they’ve modified the trunk.”

Felicity nods quickly. “He’s right,” she says unnecessarily. “Modern trunks are _super_ modified to make sure no one gets stuck inside them. Or kidnapped.” She swallows, looking faintly sick. “I guess that happens more than I thought.”

She hasn’t been handling Tommy’s disappearance well, even after she’d gotten over her frustration with Oliver, looking worse and worse as the hours pass, but the recent developments have improved her outlook slightly. ( _Oh, and you have been handling things well?_ Oliver’s inner voice calls him out. He’s been sleeping in snatches and segments of only a few hours at a time since Laurel’s phone call two days ago. He’s snacked on and off as the hours have gone slowly by – a handful of nuts and dried fruit here, an apple there, just enough to keep his energy up – but he’s barely been able to make himself eat the food Diggle has gone out for on occasion and his burger sits half eaten, forgotten in its wrapper. _There will be time for that after I’ve found Tommy,_ Oliver replies to himself, refocusing.)

“Diggle,” he says, nodding at their second computer, usually just used by Felicity in conjunction with the first. “See what you can find out about the car. Felicity, get me a list of every building within our radius, and every camera on those streets.”

They get to work again. It’s not quick but it’s easy this time, slogging through endless data, eliminating option after option. It takes time, but there’s nothing that can be done about that – there are hundreds of buildings in the area that the car disappeared into. Once Felicity has a list, Oliver eliminates any buildings with steady, nine-to-five kind of hours posted, or twenty-four-hour fast food places and convenience stores, as well as any residence registered as having children listed. Any apartment building without vacancies – and without a basement – get thrown off the list as well. (It’s not definite, that Tommy’s not in one of these places, but Oliver’s going to start with the most likely locations first. Tommy might not have time for anything else.)

By the time night falls, he’s got a list of twenty-six possible buildings.

“No luck on the car,” Diggle interrupts Oliver’s thought process, standing and stretching slightly. “Plates are real, same car as parking ticket guy, and the VIN isn’t drawing any red flags. And any auto shop willing to modify the trunk like that isn’t going to advertise that.”

There are people that Oliver could question – he knows five shady auto repair shops in the Glades off the top of his head – but he’ll leave that for later, if they don’t get any leads off of the information in front of him. He nods.

“We didn’t expect to find anything,” he says plainly. _Stay rational, logical. No emotions._ It’s like a mantra in his head, reigning in his anger, helping him think clearly and forget for seconds and even minutes at a time that this is Tommy they’re talking about, Tommy they’re looking for.

“What’ve you got?” Diggle asks, shifting to look.

“Down to twenty-six,” Felicity says proudly. It’s a large number, but it’s nothing compared to the quantity they’d started with.

Oliver breaks down the list for Diggle. “These five are apartment complexes with vacancies. It’s unlikely, but Tommy could be held in one of them. These six are residences for sale – no way to confirm if they’re actually empty though. The next seven are businesses that aren’t as reputable as their neighbors, with odd hours. Unlikely, but we don’t know yet if all of them are affiliated with criminal organizations, and until we know more about who has Tommy…”

“That’s the Bratva mechanics you took me to earlier,” Diggle says, pointing.

Oliver nods. “The Culebra gang, Los Halcones, the Triad – there are a lot of suspected affiliations.”

“And the others?”

“Of the last eight,” Oliver continues, “two are halted construction projects, just finished enough to give someone a place to hide; six are abandoned. And of those abandoned ones, these two are the most likely.”

Felicity pulls up the images on screen as Oliver talks and Diggle studies them. “Because they’ve got places to hide the car,” he agrees.

One building is an old auto mechanic shop, closed down for over five years, with a garage. Another is an old three-story office building with parking beneath it.

“They’re out of the way, hidden, and nobody’s been inside them for years.”

“Oliver…” Diggle starts.

“I know we have no proof,” Oliver cuts him off sharply. “He could be in a private residence. They could have taken him somewhere else in another vehicle. I know that. But I also know that if he’s still there, these two are the most likely locations.” This isn’t like when he’d rescued Walter, when he’d know with exact certainty where the man was. He’s shooting blind here, can’t see his target.

Diggle frowns, studying the screen again. “You’re right,” he agrees unhappily. “I assume that means you plan to do something about it?”

“Pull up the blueprints,” Oliver says, “I’ll get changed.”

Felicity is quick to do so, and they’re ready and waiting for him when he returns to her side. This is Tommy he’s trying to rescue, which means that, while Oliver wants to leave as soon as possible, wants to break all speed limits and race away from the foundry right that second, it also means that he has to do this right. Anything they can plan out now they need to, nothing within their control can be left to chance. Oliver double and triple checks his quiver, his arrows, his bow – the knife in his boot and the few extra scraps of first aid supplies he shoves into various pockets. The comms are working, his bike has a full tank of gas, and the tracker in his boot is active.

They spend half an hour going through building plans and satellite images, entrances and exits, and then Oliver can’t sit still any longer.

“Have the police on standby,” he orders roughly as he smears on the face paint, quiver already strapped to his back.

“Which one are you hitting first?” Felicity asks.

“The office building,” Diggle answers for him. It’s the obvious choice, after all.

Oliver nods once, then he’s gone. On the ride there he thinks about whether or not he should have brought Diggle with him, should have asked Roy for help, should have had the police storm the building first. But the police won’t just storm a building on his say-so, even an abandoned one, and he knows he’s not in the right mindset to watch anyone’s back just then. He can’t spare any thoughts for anyone behind him, all of his focus has to be in front. Where Tommy is.

(Where Tommy _has_ to be, because if he’s not… Well, if he’s not, then Oliver will just keep looking. He’s not ever going to give up. Not in a million years.)

The bike roars loudly in his ears, the other traffic little more than background noise (though Oliver, as always, pays attention to his surroundings; this is not the time to make a mistake).

Sticking to the rough entry plan they’d devised he parks his bike three alleys over, climbs to an adjacent rooftop, and zip lines down to the building that might just hold Tommy. Overkill, if it’s empty, but it’s a good entry plan if it’s not. No one ever expects an attack to come from above, whether that means the treetops of Lian Yu or the floors above you in a supposedly secure building.

The roof door is unlocked. Oliver eases it open, feeling the blood singing through his veins. His vision is crystal clear, his hearing exquisite. “Entering now,” he mutters into his comm, before muting the channel on his end.

Softly, gently, he closes the door behind him and eases his way down the stairs. His keen eyes spot no cameras, but he still pauses every few steps, listening, making sure his entrance hasn’t been detected. Hugging the edges to make less noise, Oliver finds himself in a stairwell that goes all the way down to the basement garage. He pauses again on the third-floor landing, listening closely.

Sounds. Voices from below: Oliver feels a thrill race through him, vicious, victorious. _Don’t count your chickens,_ he warns himself. Could just be squatters. (But he has a feeling it’s not that he can’t completely ignore – maybe hope, maybe gut instinct. He doesn’t really care right now.)

He sinks down to the second level, careful, and the voices grow louder. Halfway between the first and the second floor, Oliver pauses yet again. He crouches down on the stairs, bow in hand, and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths. In and out, the air flowing strongly into his chest, inflating his lungs with oxygen, releasing carbon dioxide back out again, as Oliver listens.

Laughter. Oliver wishes he could have said that it is cruel or vindictive, but it’s just laughter, easy, light, carefree.

“Oh, shove off!” A voice replies, indignant but with a hint of amusement.

“What was that you were saying about being able to read people?” Cheerful and cheeky, an old friend joking around.

The sound of cards being shuffled. Clinks of plastic on plastic – poker chips, Oliver guesses, based on the context he’s heard, and there are at least three men playing. He listens for another few minutes and settles on five men, all of them settled around a table, all of them participating in the game. They’re relaxed and unalert. None of them have mentioned Tommy, or even referred to a prisoner being kept elsewhere in the building.

But Oliver doubts very much that five friends would choose an abandoned office building in the Glades as their spot for a weekly poker night. No, they’re here because something else – someone else – is here too. Someone they’re guarding, probably interrogating.

_Tommy,_ Oliver thinks desperately, even as he keeps himself still. It’s nearing three days since his best friend had gone missing and there’s no telling what’s been done to him – not yet – but if these five men are still here, and they are the ones who kidnapped him, then there’s a good bet he’s still alive. Despite the fact that he doesn’t have confirmation of any of these facts, Oliver feels a trickle of relief seep into his bones. (They’ve all been working off the assumption that Tommy had been kidnapped for a reason, that someone had wanted something from him, other than just wanting to kill him. Oliver can’t help but feel relief that that seems to be the case.)

Standing slowly, he makes his way down the last few steps and puts his back to the wall near the door, listening once more. Two more minutes positioned there doesn’t tell him anything new. Oliver could spend more time waiting. He could wait until he hears a mention of Tommy. He could wait until someone steps out for a break. But the thought of Tommy, locked up in a room somewhere or restrained or unconscious, makes him want to act sooner rather than later.

He could also move around these men, try to find Tommy first, but he doesn’t want to have to fight his way through with Tommy at his side. Better to handle the violence first, now, then rescue Tommy.

Oliver mentally reviews his plan of action, then tests the doorknob in the stairwell. Unlocked. He eases the door open just a crack, so that a simple nudge will push it open all the way – his hands are about to be occupied. But first…

“Going in,” he whispers into the unmuted comm, “requesting radio silence.”

_“Roger,”_ Diggle replies easily, only a hint of strain in his tone. _“Good luck man.”_

The Arrow pulls one of his signature weapons from his quiver and nocks his bow, feeling the tension in the air and his bowstring both.

There is no way of knowing the status of the men in the next room over, not without opening the door fully and possibly alerting them to his presence, but Oliver can guess at a few things.

All of them sound relaxed. They’re not uneasy or on edge about having a kidnap victim nearby. (He’s assuming that’s the case, that Tommy is in the building. It’s the most likely scenario, even if it’s also the one he wants to be true.) Which tells Oliver that they’re probably not expecting company, and also that they’ve probably done this before. It’s not something new for them.

(It also tells him they don’t consider Tommy to be a threat, and the reasoning behind that could range from everything to the manner of restraint they’re using on him to the possibility that he could be dead already. Oliver does not let his mind dwell on that.)

From that, and the other information he already has – the way they’d pulled off the kidnapping, the lengths they’d gone to, the location they’d chosen) he figures most, if not all of them, will be armed. Mostly with guns, but he doesn’t discount the possibility that more than one of them will have a knife on him.

He’s making a lot of assumptions, he knows, and that’s not usually a good thing before a fight with unknown adversaries. But Oliver also knows well enough to err on the side of caution. It’s better to overestimate your enemies’ capabilities than to underestimate them.

So, assuming that they are all armed, that they are all experienced, that they all know how to fight (for any number of reasons, from street experience to potential ex-military personnel), and that Tommy is restrained separately and therefore not immediately in the room with them, the Arrow bursts into the room with his bow already nocked and fires at the most obvious target in his sights.

His arrow flies straight and true, piercing the bicep of the man directly across the table from Oliver. He lets out a mangled cry of pain and alarm as he topples backward, one that ends in a shout as he hits the ground with the arrow still sticking out of his arm. There’s a mad scramble for action – cards fluttering to the table, hands reaching for weapons – and a cacophony of sound – swears and curses echo through the large, empty space, the scraping of chair legs against the concrete as the kidnappers push backward and burst upward – but Oliver already has a second arrow nocked.

He breathes, aims, releases in a matter of seconds, arrow embedding in a second man’s shoulder as he turns to face Oliver, adding another cry of pain to the maelstrom of sensory input Oliver is currently receiving. There are five of them, as Oliver had thought. Three of them had been seated facing the door he’d burst through, two had had their backs to him. As Oliver moves forward the two uninjured men behind the table flip it over, using it as a shield for them and their injured companion. One of the two men who’d had their backs to him originally is on his back on the ground, hand pressed tightly to his wound, teeth gritted and eyes screwed shut.

Oliver heads straight for the only man still standing, the one with a military crew cut and a vicious look in his eyes. In close quarters like this, in a situation where it’s five-on-one, the biggest danger to him is the other men’s guns. So when he swings at Crew Cut with his bow, he angles himself so that his enemy is between him and the overturned table and reminds himself to keep an eye on the man on the ground beside him – Shoulder Wound is down for the moment but not necessarily out.

With a solid grunt of pain, Oliver’s bow connects with Crew Cut’s midsection, forcefully pushing the air from his lungs as he bends over slightly in response. But Oliver’s split-second judgement of the man’s skillset turns out to be correct and even as his spine curves inward and his head dips toward the floor, Crew Cut’s right hand rises, finger hovering near the trigger of his Glock. He’s not about to let a small thing like pain distract him.

Oliver sweeps his left arm outward and upward instead of pulling back, wrist and bow impacting with Crew Cut’s forearm. A loud crack takes out the hearing in Oliver’s left ear as Crew Cut’s index finger finds the trigger, but he’ll take partial-temporary deafness over a bullet wound any day of the week. (A few other bullets fly past as well, from the men behind the table, but they’re attempting to avoid Crew Cut – for the moment, at least – so the shots go wide.)

Ignoring the ringing in his ears and keeping his left arm up in the air – and therefore forcing Crew Cut’s right to remain out of the fight as well – Oliver reaches forward with his right and lands a hit on Crew Cut’s jaw as the man straightens from the first blow. Crew Cut reels backward, gun clattering to the ground as his grip loosens, but he recovers quickly from that as well, blocking Oliver’s next jab and aiming his own hit for Oliver’s face

Ducking down to avoid the hit, rather than simply blocking it, Oliver kicks out with his right leg and Crew Cut’s left knee crumples. The man lets out an aborted grunt of pain that Oliver sees rather than hears, another gunshot ringing out as a bullet passes over both their heads.

Standing while Crew Cut falls would leave him vulnerable, so Oliver dives forward instead. His body hits Crew Cut’s hard, pushing them both to the floor in front of the overturned table, but Crew Cut has enough presence of mind to twist with the motion so that Oliver winds up on the ground next to him rather than on top of him.

Oliver feels the air leave him briefly at the impact with the concrete, but he was ready for it. He ignores the stinging in his left shoulder where he hit the ground (ignores his still-ringing left ear, rattled by the sudden movements) and props himself upward, not quite crouching. With quick, efficient movements he pulls a flechette from his wrist and throws it behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he sees it impact with Shoulder Wound’s uninjured arm, the man releasing another cry of pain.

The gun he’d been aiming at Oliver goes off as it clatters to the ground but the bullet shoots past him and Crew Cut both, causing the two men behind the table to duck.

Oliver’s actions save his life but give Crew Cut enough time to pull himself back together. The man throws a sloppy punch at Oliver from his spot on the ground, and Oliver dodges it just as sloppily, almost falling backward before he manages to stand. Except now he stands between Crew Cut and the other men, an open target, back to the tipped-over table.

He can hear – rather than see – Left Table and Right Table readying their weapons, aiming for his spine. Oliver doesn’t give himself a moment to think, only reacts. He reaches forward to where Crew Cut is starting to stand and tangles his fist into the other man’s shirt. Using Crew Cut’s upward momentum and his own not-inconsiderable strength, Oliver hauls the man toward himself, pivots on his left foot, and tosses Crew Cut over the table at his partners before either man can fire their weapons.

There’s no time to pause and take a breather though, despite the fact that all five men are now on the ground. (Shoulder Wound is bleeding from both his left shoulder and his right forearm – he’s not going anywhere soon. Bicep Arrow hasn’t really moved since the fight began. Blood pools slowly under his arm. He’s not quite unconscious yet, but it’s close enough. Oliver discounts him too. But that still leaves three.)

With a little bit of distance between them again, Oliver quickly nocks another arrow and lets it fly, barely able to get his breathing under control after half-lifting a man almost as tall as he is. Crew Cut howls as the arrow embeds itself into his left shin just as Left Table and Right Table struggle to their feet. Shifting his grip on his bow, Oliver vaults the thick table, landing between his only two uninjured opponents. A jab with his right fist disorients Left Table for a moment, then Oliver tosses the bow from his left hand to his right as he spins, sweeping it across Right Table’s midsection.

The man folds almost in half with a pained grunt, little sound making its way past his lips (and even less making its way to Oliver’s one working ear) as his air is forced from his lungs. A follow-up hit to the back of the man’s neck knocks him to the floor and Oliver turns back to Left Table in a matter of seconds.

Left Table has a knife in his hand, to make up for the gun he’d dropped during his earlier tumble. Left without any other options giving the limited reaction time available to him, Oliver raises his right forearm to block the swipe, feeling the sharp cut of the blade into his flesh. It burns for the briefest of seconds before Oliver pushes the pain aside and tells his body to worry about it later.

Luckily, Left Table seems to have expected him to stagger more, to pause and worry about the blood seeping from his fresh wound, and the fact that Oliver doesn’t gives him an advantage. Within seconds Left Table has joined his friends on the floor. Of course, that’s when yet another gunshot rings out, Crew Cut still sprawled out on the ground, expression contorted in pain, but with a new gun in his hand (either Left Table’s or Right Table’s, it doesn’t really matter).

This bullet only just misses its target, gouging a canyon through the edge of Oliver’s left thigh, but Crew Cut is disoriented from pain and blood loss, and his hand shakes around the weapon he clutches tightly. His aim isn’t the best right now.

Ignoring his own pain, Oliver takes a few steps forward, rips the gun from Crew Cut’s hand and kicks the man in the gut.

(In the back of his mind, Oliver notes that it’s not very hero-like to kick a man while he’s down. But Oliver’s not a hero – has never been a hero – and he doesn’t really care. He’s the Arrow. This is who he is. (This is for Tommy.))

Crew Cut curls up, gasping, and Oliver takes a minute to gather up all the guns scattered around the floor. He empties all the clips first, then tosses guns and bullets to opposite sides of the room. Bicep Arrow, Shoulder Wound, and Crew Cut are drifting on the edges of slumber, succumbing slowly to the loss of blood as the copper-scented liquid seeps onto the ground around them, the sight and smell reminding Oliver of different times.

Left Table’s still dazed from the hits, also mostly unconscious. Right Table, despite the fact that he still sits on the ground, has mostly recovered. Oliver fires another arrow through his shin too, the sharp arrowhead making its way through flesh and digging into the concrete. Right Table gives a sharp scream that cuts out as he loses consciousness.

Violent. Cruel. Unnecessary. Oliver knows what everyone (what Diggle and Felicity and especially Superman) would say if they could see him now.

But they’re not here. Tommy is. (Tommy has to be.)

Tense, every sense on high alert, ignoring the blood dripping onto the floor from his right forearm, trickling heavily down his left leg under his uniform, Oliver pulls out his zip ties and moves from opponent to opponent, binding their wrists and searching them each for knives, which he collects and pockets himself. His opponents are defeated. There are no cameras anywhere that he can see, no indication of another criminal who might have just stepped out for a smoke or gone on a food run. Almost as an afterthought he pulls out one of his two wire-cable arrows and pins Left Table to the floor.

He’s in the best shape, after all. No sense in leaving anyone behind capable of coming after him, bound hands or not.

Only then, with the five finally down _and_ out, their weapons far from their hands, does Oliver take the time to really examine his own injuries. His ear still rings sharply, the few sounds around him muffled. The glancing blow across his arm was stopped somewhat by the leather he wears. It’s thin and several inches long, but not deep. The blood that has seeped from it is already starting to clot and harden in the chilly night air.

The wound on his leg, however, is a bit deeper, a bit thicker. It’s still oozing blood and his pant leg is already coated in the liquid. Oliver tests shifting all his weight to that leg. Pain shoots up from the wound, bone aching and fierce, but it’s ignorable, so long as he doesn’t stand too long on the limb. It’s the blood loss he needs to worry about. He could take the time to wrap it up properly with the gauze he has but there’s no telling what kind of condition Tommy will be in when Oliver finds him. He doesn’t want to use up the few medical supplies he has on his person.

He unzips his jacket for a moment instead, tears off a strip of the bottom of the t-shirt he wears underneath, and ties it around his wound to hopefully slow the blood flow.

Ignoring everything else, ignoring the fact that he probably needs stiches, Oliver finally ( _finally_ ) heads for the only other closed door in the wide-open room. The building had been an office building, once upon a time, and the floor plan is almost entirely open now, no doubt allowing for myriad cubicles to fill the space. But there are two inner rooms. One is against the outer wall, no doubt the boss’s office, no doubt with windows. That door is open.

The second room… The second room is against the wall the stairwell is on the other side of, small, completely enclosed. Probably a janitors or supply closet, once. And a room with no windows and a locked door in the same space as five trained men…

The truth is, Oliver doesn’t have confirmation of anything. The five men he’d fought with hadn’t been expecting him, but they’d reacted like criminals, swearing and fighting back the second they’d seen him. That doesn’t mean they are kidnappers. That doesn’t mean that Tommy’s just in the next room over. Oliver knows all this, knows he’s still making assumptions.

But it’s still the most likely scenario and this time he can’t seem to stop the hope from building in him.

With steady paces, he makes his way to the locked door, steeling himself to be ready for anything. Even an empty room. (But somehow, he can’t bring himself to be ready for a dead body. Can’t even imagine how he’d react to that.)

The door itself is simple. Strong, sturdy, and solid, it looks just like any other front door that could be found on houses across the country. Which means Oliver doesn’t need keys, not from this side. He flips the deadbolt, turns the lock, and pulls the door open.

Inside the room, a lone figure stands in the back corner, tense and waiting, one hand bracing himself against the wall, as though he’s having trouble staying upright. He flinches back at the sight of Oliver – no, at the sight of the Arrow – and Oliver feels his heart crack. (He ignores that too.)

Foul scents permeate the air and it doesn’t take the Arrow more than a sweeping glance to take in the bucket in the corner and the small pile of empty water bottles on the floor, or to see that Tommy is the only one in the room. And it _is_ Tommy, and suddenly Oliver doesn’t care if Tommy is frightened of the mere sight of him, doesn’t care if Tommy never wants to see him again. After almost three days, he’s found his best friend.

“Oliver…” Tommy croaks out, voice cracking, wetting his lips as he finishes speaking. His legs are trembling, as if he can barely stand, and his hands shake at his side.

The Arrow strides quickly into the room, but… this is Tommy, his kidnapped and traumatized best friend. Oliver can’t hide behind the persona he’s constructed for himself, not right now. He’s not the Arrow in this moment and he’s not really Oliver Queen either. He’s just Oliver. He turns off the voice synthesizer.

“Can you walk?” he asks softly. The answer doesn’t really matter – he’ll carry Tommy out of here if he has to – but it’s something to say when Oliver can’t think of any other words, and it’ll help him get an idea of the state Tommy’s in.

Tommy swallows. His clothes are ragged and dirty and bruises litter his exposed flesh, in various states of healing. There are a few cuts – dried blood above his left eyebrow, lines of red around his wrists barely visible in the dim lighting, skin rubbed raw – but overall there don’t seem to be any serious injuries. “I… yeah,” Tommy says hesitantly. He takes a shaky step forward. “Is… is this…?”

And Oliver remembers what it’s like to have your cell door open after so long of being trapped inside it. Most times, while he was away, he’d had to rescue himself, but there had been once or twice where he’d seen a friend – an ally, at least – walk through a door and he remembers the relief. And the disbelief.

He moves forward again as Tommy takes a step away from the wall and places a steadying hand under Tommy’s left elbow, helping him take a few more steps forward. “This is real,” he promises his friend, voice low and just as steady as his own feet. (His own words sound muffled slightly by the deafness of his left ear, but he keeps his voice steady nevertheless.) “You’re going home, Tommy.”

Scents swirl around Oliver, the copper of blood, the stench of waste. He can feel Tommy’s arm trembling in his hand. The lighting is poor but his eyes constantly roam, over the five figures on the ground now that they’ve left Tommy’s cell, over Tommy himself. Tommy’s breathing is shaky but constant and his ear still rings faintly from the gunshot earlier.

Oliver’s senses drink it all in, and he wants to drink in nothing but Tommy except he can’t. Not yet. Not until they’re safe. ( _You’re never safe_ , some part of him says, and Oliver knows that’s part of his problem. Will he ever be able to relax again? Will he ever forget this?)

(Oliver doesn’t know the answer to the first question, but he knows the second. This memory, the fear from earlier and the relief he feels now, will live on in him forever, just like so many other memories that haunt him.)

Tommy flinches back though, now that they’re out in the open, at the sight of the five bodies on the ground. Some of them are blocked from his view by the still overturned table, cards and poker chips scattered across the floor; others are sitting in visible pools of blood.

Removing his hand from Tommy’s elbow Oliver reaches upward and gently, gently, places his fingers around the back of Tommy’s neck. This time, at least, Tommy doesn’t flinch back from his touch. Instead he lets Oliver turn his gaze from the carnage, lets Oliver lead him to the exit. He seems to be too stunned by his rescue, too startled by the turn of events, to say anything.

As they walk, Oliver clicks on his comm. “I need police at my location,” he says simply, “and several ambulances.”

A pause greets his words, a hopeful silence. _“Is Tommy…?”_ Felicity manages to ask.

“Upright and walking,” Oliver answers shortly, with a glance at his best friend. He mutes his end of the connection again. It’s wrong of him to do so, he knows that, just another action from tonight that is decidedly not heroic, but again, Oliver doesn’t care. He knows Felicity and Diggle both have befriended Tommy, knows they’re both worried about him, knows they both care about his well-being, but Oliver doesn’t want to talk about what has happened just yet. Doesn’t want to give a detailed account of exactly how shaken and battered Tommy is, doesn’t have the strength to push down his emotions enough to give that talk.

“Is… is everyone…?” Tommy tries to ask shakily, footsteps unsteady, still letting Oliver lead him.

“Laurel’s fine,” Oliver answers softly. “She’s worried sick, but Thea and Jo have been keeping her company. Even Roy’s been helping look for you – and nobody else got hurt.” He thinks about asking Tommy what the men wanted, but despite knowing that his friend still sees him as a violent criminal, he’s not ready to be Tommy’s interrogator too. The police will ask him those questions, and Oliver can read the file afterward, following up with any unasked questions once Tommy’s doing better.

At the front of the building, Oliver carefully helps Tommy to the steps leading to the front door, letting his friend sit as he stands guard beside him. But Tommy cranes his neck upward, doesn’t seem to like the distance now between them. His hand stretches ever so slightly upward, as if searching for something to grab. Oliver’s not ready to let his guard down, not yet, but… (But, as he has thought a million times already and will think a million times again, this is _Tommy_.) Luckily, the few steps to the front entrance don’t have a railing.

Oliver jumps off the side (ignoring the pain in his leg from the landing), which lets him remain standing but brings him down closer to his friend. Tommy latches onto his wrist (it’s his right wrist, but it’s below the cut he’d been dealt earlier, and even if it wasn’t Oliver wouldn’t even think of pulling back). The other man’s grip is tight despite his trembling, as though Oliver is his life line, the only thing keeping him grounded.

_He’s still afraid of you_ , Oliver tells himself, unwilling to get too hopeful about his friend’s reaction, _he’s just in shock_.

“How… how long?” Tommy manages to get out. A scraggly beard covers some of the bruises on his face and bags rest under both his eyes. He seems thinner, too, though Oliver knows that only two days without food isn’t all that bad, especially because it looked as though Tommy had been given plenty of water.

“You went missing around three am on the twenty-eighth,” he says, keeping his tone soft and his words matter-of-fact. No sugar coating, but not hiding anything either. “It’s after eight on the thirtieth – over sixty hours missing.”

Tommy swallows, looks down. “It… it felt longer,” he manages to mumble.

Oliver understands the way time seems to warp when you’re kept isolated, cut off from natural light and friendly company and three square meals a day. He’d never wanted Tommy to know how it felt. An impulse in him urges him to reach up and squeeze Tommy’s shoulder comfortingly, like they’re just two friends, but they’re not really, not any more. He restrains the impulse.

Who knows how Tommy would take it, coming from him. His mind turns clinical again. He’d decided to let the police handle the questioning, not wanting to be the one to draw attention to what Tommy had suffered through, but…

“What did they want?” he can’t help but ask. What if he hadn’t gotten all five of them? What if there are other members of the group who intend to attack other people? Some questions can’t wait.

Tommy tenses, swallows. “They, uh… They kept asking about the List. About my… about Malcolm. I told them I didn’t know anything but they –”

Oliver cuts him off as his voice grows weaker. Tommy doesn’t need to dwell on thoughts like that. “How many of them did you see?”

Tommy shakes his head quickly, staring off in the distance, and Oliver changes tracks. Tommy doesn’t need to dwell on any of it.

Resisting the urge again to place a comforting hand on Tommy’s shoulder, Oliver lowers his voice slightly. “One last question, Tommy,” he says, gentle as possible.

The words draw Tommy back to reality, and he turns to look Oliver in the face again, his apprehension clear.

“Did they mention anyone else? Anyone who might be in danger?”

Tommy blinks. “I… uh. No? No. I don’t think so.”

Oliver nods once, noting the way Tommy’s head swivels to the side, staring off down the street. Only a moment later his damaged hearing picks up on what his best friend had, sirens beginning to grow louder and louder. The police had been on standby, after all.

Oliver thinks about pulling away, about disappearing into the shadows. He thinks about never leaving Tommy’s side again. But one thought stems from logic and reason, the other emotion and sentiment, and Oliver knows which one he should be listening to right now. However Tommy clings to him, Oliver – the Arrow – cannot give him special treatment, cannot indicate to others that there is a connection between the two of them. It would only serve to put Tommy in more danger in the future.

Gently, he untangles Tommy’s hand from his wrist.

Tommy flinches back at the movement. “You’re…?”

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” Oliver promises, though he’s not sure it’s what Tommy wants to hear.

Tommy swallows, nods, eyes lost and fearful. (For Oliver? Of Oliver? At the thought of Oliver leaving? It’s impossible to say.)

As the sirens get closer and closer, Oliver sinks into the shadows of a nearby alley, considers scaling the walls to the roof of the two-story building next door, and ends up remaining on the ground level. It’s not the best position, strategically speaking, but he’s not sure his leg could handle the climb and he’d rather be alert and at a bad angle then distracted by pain and at a good one. He pulls an arrow from his quiver. He doesn’t nock it – he’s not expecting trouble – but… This is Tommy, he can’t help but think again (and again and again and again). He refuses to let anything go wrong.

But it doesn’t, and the rescue has gone exactly according to plan, and Tommy gets bundled up in an ambulance and shuttled off to the hospital. Oliver waits but a moment longer to ensure that the police find the five men inside – he doesn’t really care what happens to them, though he knows he should, but he does know that Tommy wouldn’t want anyone to die because of him – then he hurries to his motorcycle and follows discretely behind the route that he knows the ambulance will take.

Hours pass in a blur. Felicity gets Oliver eyes inside the hospital while he stiches up his own wound from a nearby alley, telling him what happens. Thea drives Laurel to the hospital, hanging back as the woman greets her boyfriend. Oliver gets a call, as himself, not the Arrow, and it’s hard for him to shift his mindset, to remember what it’s like to be Oliver Queen. When he answers, he thinks he shows the appropriate relief, then passes on Laurel’s offer to come to the hospital.

“I don’t want to crowd him,” he claims. “Let me know when he’s settled at home and I’ll stop by.” It’s not the right answer, he knows it’s not, but no matter the police guard on Tommy he’s not about to leave his best friend unprotected. When Tommy insists on going home in the early hours of the morning (and Oliver had been right, there’s nothing (physically) wrong with him that a few good meals and some rest can’t fix), the Arrow trails behind, watching, waiting.

When Tommy curls up in bed, Laurel holding him tight, the Arrow sits on the fire escape outside their window, waiting for the dawn to come.

* * *

Once upon a time, Tommy’s trip to Hong Kong had been the scariest moment of his life. He’d been kidnapped, threatened, and told once and for all that his best friend was dead. He’d never told anyone what had happened over there, had never even told anyone why he had traveled all that way, unwilling to get their hopes up. That day had been a strange mixture of terror and grief and relief – because Oliver was dead but he’d made it out alive, his kidnapper had been thwarted.

And then it had turned out that Oliver was alive, even if he’d never been in Hong Kong, stuck on the island he’d been marooned on for five years. And then the two of them had been kidnapped. It had been horrifying, but Tommy had barely been awake for most of it, only those initial moments of panic at the beginning and then the end, when he’d woken up to discover they’d already been rescued (by Oliver, though he hadn’t known that at the time).

Even after that, even after almost losing Oliver for a second time, Hong Kong had still been his most frightening memory.

That’s no longer true.

The fear of starting up his car only to hear the sound of a gun cocked at him from the backseat. The fear of being shoved into a dark trunk, wedged in tight with no escape. The cell, the men. The taunts and questions and fists. The bucket in the corner and the water bottles thrown at him.

The worry that he can’t remember everything he’d said, can’t remember what, exactly they had wanted from him (it had all been so confusing, time passing slowly and quickly and him passing out and waking up, and Tommy had been in the Glades the whole time when he’d thought he’d been hours away from Star City and that Oliver would never find him… except he had.)

_He found you_ , Tommy tells himself, curled up against Laurel in their shared bed. _He found you, you’re safe now_.

But he still has the sinking feeling that he’d told those men exactly what they wanted to hear from him, that whatever they’d wanted, they’d gotten it. He’d been so focused on protecting Oliver’s identity, on never saying a thing anytime the Green Arrow was mentioned, that’s he’d been quick to blab about anything else.

Questions about his father, about Moira Queen and the other members of the Undertaking. About the List, and who was on it.

The truth is, Tommy’s never gotten too involved in Oliver’s crusade. He doesn’t know much, so there hadn’t been much for him to spill. But whatever he had known, he’d shared.

Safe under the blankets, with the knowledge that they have a police guard down in the lobby until they determine whether his kidnappers had been hired by anyone, Tommy shivers, pulling his slumbering girlfriend closer.

Laurel had been exhausted, that much had been obvious to anyone, but she’d stayed by his side unflinchingly at the hospital, backed his play when he’d said that he’d wanted to go home, and hadn’t hesitated to leave the hallway light on for him as they’d curled into bed together. It hadn’t taken her long to fall asleep.

Tommy though… Tommy is too alert to sleep, no matter his exhaustion. He’s never been so in tune to the sounds of the building around him: the creaking in the walls, the water rushing through the pipes and electricity humming through the walls, their neighbors (those that are still awake at least), the traffic outside.

Tommy hears it all and wonders at his heightened state of alertness even as he flinches at every out of place sound.

_You’re safe now_ , he repeats again, like a mantra between him and the darkness, _Oliver found you_.

But even that thought isn’t as comforting as it should be. Months and weeks of back and forth between him and Oliver have left them in an uncomfortable place, at least in regards to the Green Arrow. After the Undertaking – after learning what his father was capable of, had been planning – Tommy had been more able to understand Oliver’s motivation, his drive to do something. But the violence, the secrecy… he still hasn’t reconciled that Oliver with the Oliver he’d once known. (Oliver killed his father and Tommy had never even gotten to ask the man why. How had his father become a man willing to destroy thousands of lives without anyone noticing?)

And he’s made those thoughts clear. The last conversation they’d had about the Green Arrow had ended with Tommy walking away, deciding to keep the Green Arrow out of his life while still keeping Oliver Queen in it. And the thing is – the thing is, he doesn’t regret that decision. He still doesn’t feel right keeping Oliver’s secret from Laurel, from Thea. He’d still flinched back at the violence he’d seen tonight.

But he’d also been rescued by the Green Arrow, and he’s always known, even if he’d never really wanted to accept it, that the Green Arrow is a part of who Oliver is now, a part that will always be there. He’d been there for Tommy tonight.

How can he turn his back on Oliver when it comes to some things but not others? How can he condemn what the Green Arrow does and thank him for saving his life all the while?

Oliver’d found him, because of course Oliver had found him, because of course Oliver had come for him, just like he’d tried to find Oliver all those years ago. But Oliver had succeeded where Tommy had not, and that was because of the Green Arrow. That was because, whatever had happened to Oliver those five years away, his best friend had become something different, someone different than the man he’d known before.

He can’t ignore that, however badly he’s been trying to.

How can he turn his back on the way Oliver spends his nights when it’s because of that that he’s still alive, that he’s home and safe and in Laurel’s arms again? And at the same time, how can he not tell Laurel that it was Oliver who rescued him and brought him home to her?

(How can he turn his back on his best friend – how has he been able to turn his back on his best friend again and again and again – knowing that Oliver is still Oliver, deep down, that whatever changes he’d gone through had been because of the trauma he’d endured?)

_Of course_ Oliver had found him. _Of course_ he had. Tommy’d always known that he would, even if he’d doubted it at times in the darkness of his cell, aching and afraid. And he’d been so, so relieved to see him, so grateful. He’d wanted to cling to Oliver, no matter the fearsome appearance his best friend had in costume. He’d wanted Oliver to be with him every step of the way.

He wants Oliver in his life, but he’s been trying to pick and choose which parts of Oliver. But the Green Arrow is Oliver, always has been. He just hasn’t let himself admit it.

Shifting in bed again, too many restless questions run through Tommy’s mind without any answers.

He doesn’t know where he goes from here. He just knows that he wants Oliver and Laurel both to be right beside him in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter, but this way you don't have to wait too long for Tommy's rescue, right? Chapter 20: Backlash, should be up November 5th.


	20. Backlash

 

_November 5, 2013, early morning:_

In between her new job and Verdant and the introductory English and Economics classes she’s taking online at Mendocino Community College, on top of what has become her life – the occasional lunch or dinner with Walter, the movie every week or so with Oliver, hanging out with her boyfriend, texting Laurel about the TV show she convinced the older woman to watch that they’re now both obsessed with, Tommy’s recent abduction and subsequent rescue by the Green Arrow (and the fact that, in the aftermath of that, she’s largely managing Verdant on her own now) – it takes Roy’s prompting for Thea to realize that she hasn’t seen Sin in a while.

It wasn’t like she saw the other woman often, or that they were even really friends. She’s pretty sure that Roy hung out with her more than the three of them did together. And she is busy, there’s no denying that. She doesn’t think she’s ever been busier in her life – not working on anything that was actually productive. Two online classes, a management position, a good relationship with her brother (mostly) and step-father and boyfriend, a growing friendship with Laurel, and… and what happened to Tommy. (He’s still shaken. Still quiet and uncertain and more or less unwilling to leave the apartment. And on top of how he’s handling things, and the way Laurel’s handling things, there’s Oliver. He hasn’t been to visit Tommy once, and either their schedules have been completely different the past few days or he’s been avoiding her too. Of course, his new CEO had just died. Thea was avoiding judgement for now.)

But Laurel’s not her only new female friend and after their shift one morning Roy mentions that he hasn’t seen her since she’d stormed out of Verdant that one early morning back in October. Thea frowns and realizes that was weeks ago. October had seemed to just fly by, and the days since Tommy’s kidnapping have been a blur of activity.

“Really?” she asks. People go their separate ways – Thea knows that well enough, having spoken to only one of her old high school friends since graduation – but Sin’s departure had been abrupt and not really mutual. ( _Right, because the other vigilante left town,_ Thea remembers absentmindedly. In all the turmoil, she’d almost forgotten there even had been another vigilante.)

Roy nods. “Yeah,” he says, worry in his tone. “I’m worried about her.”

Thea snorts, though it’s not as abrasive as it would be if she wasn’t worried too. “If anyone can take care of themselves, it’s that girl.”

Her boyfriend gives her a look. “I know you two don’t get along –” he starts.

Thea cuts him off. “No, I know. Now that you mention it…”

“So she hasn’t talked to you either?”

_Why would she talk to me?_ Thea thinks about saying. But Roy’s really worried and, if she’s honest with herself, she’s not exactly relaxed thinking about it, especially after what had happened to Tommy. (Though Tommy had been abducted because of his father and Sin’s just a street kid from the Glades, the events of last week have reminded Thea of all the terrible things that can happen to people in this world – more specifically, to the people in _her_ world. Oliver. Walter. Now Tommy.) “Do you think something happened to her?”

A shrug. “She could just be avoiding us.”

Very possible, given how they’d left things. Despite the fact that it seems like it had happened ages ago, Thea remembers the anger in Sin’s eyes perfectly. And she’s got every right to avoid them if she wants – that’s her choice. Like Thea had said, Sin can take care of herself. But she recognizes the look in Roy’s eyes too, the one that says he’s about to go charging into danger regardless of what Thea thinks.

“You’re going to go looking for her,” she says flatly. She’s not sure what to think about that. She loves his willingness to help others. She hates the danger that often puts him in.

Roy grimaces but doesn’t back down. “She could be hurt.”

“Could be avoiding us,” Thea repeats, throwing Roy’s own words back at him.

Roy throws her a look.

Thea believes wholeheartedly that Sin is a strong, capable young woman, no matter how much they don’t get along. But she’s still only barely eighteen, and it is the Glades, and she doesn’t seem to have anyone else, and… and Thea isn’t that kind of person anymore, the kind who ignores a friend in need. She’d done drugs in high school, and so had her friends. She’d known someone who’d almost died from an overdose, another from alcohol poisoning, and, too caught up in her own problems and her own life, she hadn’t done a damn thing about it.

She doesn’t want to be that kind of person anymore.

“I’m going with you then,” she says, and though Roy looks reluctant, he knows better than to argue by now.

* * *

_November 5, 2013, early evening:_

After a shift at Verdant, Thea always crashes for at least a few hours, sometimes until as late as noon, sometimes at Roy’s place, sometimes back at the Queen mansion. Morning has become her ‘night’, so to speak. (It’s not that she’s never stayed up late and slept equally as late before, but she hadn’t really cared back then, hadn’t been actively doing something important that kept her awake. This time… this time feels different. It feels good.)

Today she’d gone back to the Queen mansion on Roy’s prompting, because although he hadn’t argued about taking him with her when he finds Sin, first he needs to track the other woman down. By now, Thea knows well enough that Roy’s friends – his contacts on the streets – aren’t about to talk to him with her standing right there, no matter how much she doesn’t want him to go alone. She’ll go with him to actually meet up with Sin, but she’d only hold him back in during the steps leading up to that.

So she’d gone home, slept, filled her belly, ignored her mother’s decision not to go to trial, worked on her economics homework for a few hours, ignored Oliver’s glaring absence yet again, texted Laurel to check in with how Tommy was doing, texted Jo to check in with how Laurel was doing (and, honestly, Tommy’s kidnapping was not how she had expected to meet Laurel’s best friend, but she does like the other woman even if they’ve only ever really talked about Laurel and Tommy) and otherwise passed the time around the house waiting for Roy to get in touch again.

He’d pulled up in front of the manor just before twilight in his neighbor’s old beater and, throwing on a jacket and grabbing some of the leftovers Raisa had made – knowing Roy probably hadn’t eaten yet, or at least hadn’t eaten enough – she had been quick to join him.

Now he pulls into a metered spot on a decently well-lit street in the Glades, looking at her apprehensively as he puts the truck into park.

“Thea…” he starts.

“If you’re about to try and talk me out of this,” Thea cuts him off quickly. “You can forget it. I’m going with you.” Tommy’s abduction has brought her anger back to the forefront of her brain – anger she thought she’d been handling after visiting her mother and getting a job at Verdant. (But Tommy was _kidnapped_ and last time she’d seen him he hadn’t seemed to be handling things well and Oliver’s been avoiding her, not to mention he hasn’t even visited Tommy yet and her mother’s still keeping secrets and… Anger’s all Thea’s got right now, and she’s tired of Roy trying to protect her too. She makes her own choices.)

Roy shakes his head at her, and Thea can see his frustration in his eyes, but there’s a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips too. He can never stay mad at her long.

Exiting the truck, Roy gestures down the street, then takes up his spot as guard dog by her side as they walk.

“So, where exactly is she hiding out?” Thea asks. It’s the wrong choice of words, she realizes almost instantly (or, at least, it’s not something she would want to say in front of Sin), but Roy doesn’t call her out on it.

“A few streets over,” Roy explains. “Not really any parking in the area and…” His hand waves vaguely behind them.

And it’s his neighbor’s truck, not his. (And she’s with him. Thea knows that encourages Roy to drive a little safer, park legally in a better neighborhood. She wishes he’d do it for his own sake, but she’ll take it for hers. For now.) She nods.

As they move through the neighborhood the overhead lighting gets sparser, the graffiti increases in volume, the number of abandoned buildings shoots upward. Thea is simultaneously both grateful for Roy’s presence and annoyed that she’s grateful in the first place. She can handle herself. (That doesn’t change the fact that she likes having him at her side. Or the nagging thought that she _can’t_ handle herself. Not in a real fight, no matter how much she wants to think otherwise.)

Thea knows that sometimes Sin hangs at friend’s houses, at least overnight – she’s heard names dropped here and there during their sparse acquaintance: Max, Theo, Kay – but she also knows that’s not always the case. Tonight, it seems, Sin’s on her own. (Or, if she’s with any friends, those friends don’t have places of their own.)

The building Roy leads them to is small, dark, and abandoned, tucked in a corner alley and forgotten. There’s no telling if it was a store once or someone’s apartment, a public place or a private hideaway. Not in the dim lighting surrounding them, at least.

Thea hesitates outside the door, because at least that’s intact, even if the one (small) window is boarded up. “Should we knock?” she mutters under her breath to Roy. They’re here to see Sin, and they will see her – Thea’s not taking no for an answer – but she doesn’t want to just burst into what passes for the other woman’s home, even if it’s only for one night.

Roy grimaces, raps a few times at the door, and opens it barely a second later. “It’s us,” he announces, stepping forward into the doorway but not actually entering the building.

Sin almost seems to surge forward from the darkness, sudden and in their faces as she sneers at them from only a few feet away. “What are you doing here?”

Bristling, Thea fights down her instinctive reaction to lash out at Sin in return. She’s tired of the other woman treating her as if she’s worth nothing because of who she is but she’s finally starting to realize that Sin’s only treating her how everyone else treats Sin. Thea has everything people like Sin want and she’s lived most of her life blissfully unaware of that fact.

(Except her life wasn’t sunshine and daisies, except she’d lost her father and her brother at the age of twelve, except her step-father had been kidnapped only last year, except she’d been raised by a would-be mass murderer.

Except. It’s not like Sin hasn’t lost people, doesn’t have shitty parents (presumably). So Thea takes a deep breath and pushes past her anger for a moment and tries to think from the perspective of someone other than herself.)

Besides, Roy is Sin’s friend more than she is. Roy’s the reason they’re here, checking up on the other woman. She’ll let Roy take the lead for now.

“We’re here to hang,” Roy says brusquely, stepping into the room. “Thea brought dinner.”

Thea almost scoffs at that too, because that’s not why they’re there at all – why can’t Roy just admit he was worried about Sin? – but she’s following Roy’s lead right now. _I’m following his lead_ , she reminds herself yet again. _Just go along with it._

She steps into the room behind Roy, closing the door behind her and finally taking in the dim surroundings, lit only by a small lamp, it’s single light-bulb unshielded and casting sharp shadows over the walls. She did bring dinner, if only because the leftovers she’d grabbed before leaving Queen Manor are still in her purse and she hadn’t been about to leave that in the car. (She’s learning. The bag isn’t nearly as flashy as the one Roy had first stolen from her. This one is older and frayed at the edges. It was second hand, from Laurel, and probably cost less than a hundred dollars the first time around. It’s definitely worth less than that now.)

“Stir fry,” she says, “and rice.” If Roy thinks the three of them are actually going to sit down on this floor and eat together than he’s higher than a kite, but – as she keeps reminding herself – this is his play. She’s following his lead.

“What, no five-course meal?”

“Sorry,” Thea snaps back without thinking, “couldn’t fit it in my purse.”

Sin huffs a laugh even through her sneer, but the familiar back and forth does seem to get her to relax slightly so Thea ignores the reproachful look Roy tosses her way.

“Whatever,” Sin says. “I already ate.”

No telling if that’s true or not but Thea doesn’t really care. She’d never had any expectations the Tupperware would be leaving her purse. (Like Sin would accept something from _her_.)

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Roy responds, with the devil-may-care attitude that Thea has taken to be the typical tone for casual street conversation that is not actually nearly as casual as its participants want you to think it is. It’s a way of asking a question without actually asking a question, and a way of asking a question that makes it seem like you could care less about what the answer is. On one hand, it takes any hint of emotions or feelings (weakness) out of the conversation, but it also gives Sin an out. Roy never actually asked a question, so she has no obligation to respond.

They all know Roy wants a response though. All know he cares about the answer. (At least, Thea hopes Sin knows.)

Sin shrugs. “Been busy.”

Just like Roy’s not-really-a-question, Sin’s response is not really an answer. It’s just talk, the two of them sizing each other up, trying to decide how far they can push (on Roy’s end) or how much they’re willing to give up (on Sin’s).

“Yeah?” Thea butts in, raising an eyebrow. It comes out harsher than she’d intended, more skeptical than is polite. Too late she remembers that she was letting Roy take the lead, but Thea’s always had trouble reigning herself in and her bad mood coupled with Sin’s attitude toward her aren’t helping matters. She doesn’t have the patience to do things Roy’s way right now.

Roy steps up beside her as Sin bristles, angling his body so that he almost seems to stand between her and the other woman. He doesn’t shoot her a look over his shoulder, too focused on diffusing the situation, but he doesn’t have to. Thea can read his disapproval in the tightness of his shoulders and the clenched fist at his side.

“No worries,” he says quickly, as though trying to pretend Thea hasn’t spoken. “We get it. Doesn’t mean you’re busy now.” He’s still trying to pretend at casualness, at a lack of concern. Maybe that’s the language of the streets, but that doesn’t mean Thea has to like it.

Sin scowls at him, eyes flickering from his form to Thea behind him and back again. Subtly, she shifts the angle of her own body. “Whatever,” she says.

Thea doesn’t read ‘welcome’ in the other woman’s stance but Roy seems to. His shoulders fall slightly and his own body shifts too, no longer angled as if to protect Thea from Sin (or Sin from Thea). Thea looks between the two, frustrated by her own confusion, by Sin’s acerbic attitude, by Moira Queen’s secrets and Oliver’s carelessness and seeming lack of concern for his best friend. Even as Roy and Sin seem to relax slightly she finds her own muscles tensing.

“You gonna tell us why you’ve been avoiding us?” she finds herself asking, and just like that tension fills the room again. Thea snaps.

“I don’t want to hear it, from either of you,” she bites out, cutting off Sin’s likely-insult and Roy’s likely-admonishment in response to her question. “We came here to make sure you were okay because we hadn’t seen you in a month,” she directs at Sin. “Except you’re too chicken to tell her that –” Roy glances away at that, mouth thin, “– and you don’t seem to care about us either way, so I don’t even know why we bothered!”

Thea knows she’s wrong, _knows_ it, because this is not the way Sin and Roy handle things, because Sin and Roy _had_ been communicating, she’d just been too frustrated with the fact that she couldn’t understand the two of them, too impatient. But she’s _right_ too. It’s just that saying it out loud might just scare Sin away again.

It’s too late to take her words back now. Not that Thea even really wants to.

Sin’s mouth thins too.

“Well you know what, Princess?” she snaps back. “I’m tired too. I’m tired of you feeling entitled to everyone’s life story because what does it matter – it couldn’t possibly be as bad as yours! You just walk in here and expect me to owe you something? Not gonna happen!”

“I never said you owed me anything! I’m not asking for your life story here,” she sneers. “I’m asking if you’re okay. Excuse me for caring!”

“I can take care of myself!”

Thea’s hands flare outward, gesturing to the small, dimly lit and dirty room. “Oh, I can see that,” she says.

Sin tenses even further, Roy mutters a low “Thea…”, a warning clear in his tone at her side, and even Thea realizes that was a low blow in less than a second. She didn’t quite mean it that way – she knows nothing about what it’s like to not have a roof over your head or a place to sleep at night – but Sin has people willing to help her. She doesn’t have to live like this.

The only reason Thea’s never offered her a room at Queen Manor is because she knows Sin would never take it, not in a million years. The offer of a job at Verdant had been taken badly enough as it was.

“Leave,” Sin says, low and dangerous.

“If you think –”

“Get out.”

“No.” Thea stands firm and resolute, unwavering. So she’d screwed up, yeah? That doesn’t mean she’s giving up. “You know what – as hard as it probably is for us both to believe – I used to be a lot like you.”

Sin scoffs. “Never took you for the type to insult yourself, Princess, comparing yourself to street scum like me.”

Thea ignores it because now she gets what Sin’s doing, she finally gets it.

“Yeah, well, I used to spend a lot of time running away from my problems too.”

A poignant pause fills the air, tense and anticipatory. Every other comment Thea had thrown out there Sin had been ready for, flinging insults straight back at her, but this time she’s taken the woman by surprise. (Taken Roy by surprise too, given the look on his face.)

“If you think I’m running –” Sin snarls, stepping forward.

Thea matches her step with one of her own and stops the other woman in her tracks. “Yeah, I do,” she says plainly. Her anger’s not entirely gone – her blood is pumping fast and hot through her veins and her breath comes quickly – but arguing with Sin had spent most of it and, aside from that, understanding is a good cure for anger. “I think you didn’t want to hear what we had to say – you didn’t want to have this conversation, so you avoided us. Roy and me both.”

Sin shakes her head wordlessly, disagreement in her expression but not anger, not anymore. She’s too taken aback for that, Thea’s words have shocked that emotion right out of her system.

“And why would I do that?”

“How should I know?” Thea shoots right back. “The only thing I really know about you is how you feel about Star City’s vigilantes and rich spoiled kids like me. But I know running when I see it. Only I used drugs and alcohol to leave my problems behind and the whole world knows how that turned out.”

Sin sneers again. “Oh, yeah, the whole world, right? Because everyone knows who Thea Queen is.”

“I didn’t mean it like that and you know it,” Thea snaps back, bristling with frustration, taking another confrontational step forward. But her frustration doesn’t quite return to the level of anger again. She knows what Sin’s doing now, knows the other woman is purposely trying to push her away, trying to get her to leave, and Thea’s not about to give her the satisfaction. Sin doesn’t think she can handle herself, that she’s too spoiled to even need to stand up for herself? Well, Thea will show her.

She’s not going anywhere.

“Hah!” Sin scoffs. “Thea Queen, not talking about herself? Who would have guessed that?”

“Except you’re the one who turned a conversation about you into a conversation about me,” Thea shoots back.

Sin doesn’t quite flinch but she takes the smallest of steps backwards, left foot sliding backward against the floor as she leans away from Thea. “And you’re the one who butted her way into my life,” she returns.

Even Thea, with all her heightened emotions and steady heartbeat pounding furiously in her ears, can tell that the words are more uncertain, less harsh than before.

Roy notices it too. He takes a step forward, placing himself between the two women again, holding a hand out toward Sin, trying to be the peacekeeper.

“Look,” he says carefully. “If you want us to leave, we’ll leave. But… but I don’t think you do. You lost a friend, a good friend, and that sucks. I know what that’s like. But you still have friends. You still have us.”

Silence descends upon the room as Thea’s chest moves up and down, air flowing in and out faster, harsher, than normal. She can still hear Sin’s angry words ringing in her ears, echoed by her own. Roy’s calm is such a contrast to her and the other woman’s argument that it pulls both of them from their anger, reminds them of where they are, and why they’re there.

Pulled from the moment, Thea is reminded that they’re in a formerly abandoned building in the Glades. That Sin is homeless. That most of the anger boiling up inside her isn’t even because of Sin (it’s because of Tommy’s kidnapping and Oliver’s evasions and her mother’s life choices). That night has fallen outside. She takes in the shadows across Sin’s and Roy’s faces, the cool air that comes from a lack of heating (even if the electricity seems to be working). Sin has a pile of blankets on the floor by the lamp and a backpack that looks stuffed full. There’s no telling what’s in it, but Thea can guess. Clothes. Food. The essentials that Sin has to take with her wherever she goes because she doesn’t have a place to call her own.

Thea has never really liked Sin, not completely, not with the attitude the other woman has toward her, but she’s never really disliked Sin either. They’re acquaintances. Friendly enough, with a few similar interests (namely, the Green Arrow and Sin’s friend who’d left).

She closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, even as Sin processes Roy’s words and tries to figure out how to respond.

“Look,” she says, opening her eyes again. “Let’s just… just get a coffee or something. Catch up. Like… like friends do. Then, if you want, we’ll leave you alone again. My treat.”

Sin opens her mouth – no doubt to protest – but Thea cuts her off.

“As an apology,” she snaps out, frustration not entirely forgotten. She reigns in her anger again, is calmer when she continues. “It’s just coffee.”

And Sin glances between her and Roy, at the hopeful look on Thea’s boyfriend’s face and the expectant one on Thea’s.

“Fine,” she bites out, “fine. Let’s catch up over a cup of coffee.” Her words are scornful and skeptical – are we friends, she seems to be saying, are we really the type to catch up over a cup of coffee? – but it’s an agreement. Thea’ll take it and, from the looks of him, so will Roy.

* * *

The alleys seem darker, somehow, when they step outside the building. Thea hesitates. Verdant is in the Glades, Roy’s home is in the Glades, and she’d walked through these very streets to get here, but now she hesitates.

“Scared, Princess?” Sin sneers, shouldering past her. She’s still a bundle of anger and despair, all sharp edges and harsh words despite Thea’s outburst and subsequent offer, but she’s with them.

Thea reacts to the insult by taking a breath, letting the hot anger run through her, squaring her shoulders, gritting her teeth. She pushes her way onto the street as well. All this time, after all she’s done – after coming all the way here – and Sin still thinks she’s nothing more than a spoiled rich girl, still thinks she’s useless and hopeless and cowardly.

“This way,” she says, her own tone biting as she easily overtakes the other woman and starts to lead the way back to the truck – or at least somewhere more well-lit than these alleys.

Sin blinks even through the scowl on her face, momentarily taken aback, and for once doesn’t say anything as she follows Thea. Roy takes up the rear.

They don’t get more than a hundred feet from the building Sin had been hunkered down in before they run into trouble.

A group of men comes down the alley from the other direction, five strong and with eager looks on their faces. Roy’s good but Thea doubts he’s that good. Fear twists at her heart and dries her throat, stronger than the trepidation she’d felt at seeing the dark alley in the first place, but she keeps walking. _Maybe they’ll consider us to be more trouble than we’re worth_ , she thinks desperately. Her status as a Queen won’t help her here, but maybe Roy’s presence at their side will.

Even Sin’s bad mood doesn’t cloud her to the danger approaching them, but then, if it had, she wouldn’t have survived in the Glades for as long as she has.

“When I say run,” Sin says, low and careful, “run.” The anger is gone from her voice.

Running hadn’t even occurred to Thea, and from the tenseness in Roy’s body beside her, it hadn’t occurred to him either. But then, hadn’t she just been thinking that this was a fight they couldn’t handle?

It goes against every bone in Thea’s body, but she readies herself for a sprint, applauding her own practical shoe choice that night, the thought standing out strangely amidst her fury and fear.  

The group of men saunters closer, jeering and leering, and Thea feels her friends closing ranks, bunching together against the onslaught of looks and words.

_You’ve always known the Glades were dangerous,_ she reminds herself. It doesn’t help much. Her mind moves on to other things. Like the fact that the alley’s plenty wide enough to move past the men, like how fast she thinks she can run. Like whether or not she thinks Roy will run with them.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she murmurs to her boyfriend under her breath at that last thought. It would be just like Roy to hang back to try and give her and Sin more time to run.  

Meanwhile, the men continue to call out, taunting them, their words sending fury through Thea. Her body wants to fight back, she can feel the words rising in her throat, but her brain tells her Sin’s right. Running is their best option here. She doesn’t want Sin to be right – not because she’s still angry with the other woman but because she wants to fight.

As much as she scolds Roy for running into danger, as much as terror runs through her veins, Thea wants these scum to regret their actions. (In the back of her mind, Thea registers how frightening the anger running through her veins is. The intensity of her own feelings – how much she wants to fight back – would scare her if she had the time to think about it. She doesn’t.)

She readies her feet anyway and they get closer and closer until Sin yells “Run!”

They bolt. Feet pounding against the hard pavement, heart pounding in her chest, Thea sprints past the unsuspecting thugs. Sin easily outpaces her on one side, Roy hovers close on the other.

Behind her she can hear the stampede of footsteps and exclamations of alarm which tells her the predators have spun around and given chase. She doesn’t much like the feeling of being prey.

(She _hates_ feeling helpless, hated it when Oliver had come home and she hadn’t been able to understand him, hated it those long months when Walter had been missing and she’d done nothing, hated it when her mother had announced her evil plans to the shock of everyone in the room including Thea and she’d stood there and done nothing, said nothing, barely even certain of how to react. She’d hated the feeling of helplessness when Roy was in the Glades that night, alone, helping others, and she’d hated it again when men had come into Verdant after their fundraiser in May with guns, and she hates it now. Helplessness is cruel and heart-wrenching, worse than fear, worse than anger. It tells her she’s useless. Show’s her all the horrible things that have happened in her life and tells her she couldn’t have done a thing about them.)

But fear has overridden her anger and even her helplessness for the moment and she focuses only on Sin’s form just in front of her, the asphalt beneath her feet, and the breath in her lungs.

Then, a cry from Roy. Glass shattering against the asphalt. They’d thrown a bottle at his back and he stumbles, not falling, but slowing enough that it doesn’t really matter.

Thea hesitates, self-preservation warring with her fear for her boyfriend. She doesn’t want to feel _helpless,_ she wants to feel like she can _act_ , but she knows she’s not really capable of fighting back. Not physically. Not now, in this situation. She spins anyway, unwilling to leave Roy, and pauses a few feet away from him as Roy comes up swinging. Sin, quicker than the both of them, gets even further away, but she stops too.

“Go!” Roy grunts out, left arm already in the grip of one thug but right arm still swinging. It’s three on one, as the other two men lumber toward her and Sin.

Thea can’t leave him, but she can’t help either. She takes a few steps backward, stumbling on the pavement, eyes on the brutish man making his way toward her.

“Get out of here!” Roy calls out again, desperation clear, before a punch to his gut steals the air from his lungs.

His cry of pain clears out the fear that’s clouding her vision. She’s _not_ helpless. Thea spots something on the ground, reaches for it, and swings a pipe into the arm of the man leering at her.

The thug gives his own cry of pain, stumbling backward, expression no longer anticipatory but quickly shifting from shock to anger.

“Bitch!” he spits at her.

Grim determination grips Thea tightly as she holds the steel rod in her hands. Fear makes her arms shake, weakens her knees and clogs her throat, but she’s not backing down. Sin comes to stand at her side, pocket knife out and ready in her own hand. Roy’s still struggling against his three, though he’s not out for the count yet. But Thea and Sin have their own problem.

The ensuing fight is a blur. Thea swings her pipe with wild abandon, ignoring the ache in her hands and the reverberations of the pipe in her bones each time she connects with something solid. Her chest aches with the effort not to cry and her shoulder aches from a glancing blow, but she makes sure the men don’t get their hands on her or Sin. Not for too long at least.

Roy ends up on the ground, bruised and bleeding from a blow to the head, but one of the men he was fighting holds his own arm still, staying back from the fight. Another has his own head wound, dripping dark blood onto the black pavement. The orange lighting of the nearby sodium lamps makes the small puddles glisten unpleasantly.

It’s a standoff for the moment. One of the men who’d come for her and Sin is on the ground too, but the other has a knife of his own.

The ringleader spits on the ground, blood or saliva Thea can’t tell in the dark.

“Enough of this,” he sneers out, pulling a gun from his waistband. “We were just gonna have a little fun tonight but you bitches had to go and mess that up, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t aim the gun at her or Sin though, he aims it at Roy, held down on the ground by a man so much larger than him. Thea’s blood runs cold. She’s never been so frightened in her life.

The thought of throwing herself at the man occurs to her – she can picture herself swinging the pipe, the shudder through her forearms as it connects with the handgun – but she doesn’t move. Her feet have been glued to the pavement by a force she doesn’t understand. ( _Helpless,_ malicious thoughts whisper cruelly in the back of her mind.)

But then there is a sound, the movement of an object traveling at high speeds through the air, leaving a momentary vacuum in its wake, and then the ringleader lets out a cry of pain and Thea doesn’t see the gun anymore. She tenses, exchanging glances with Sin, with Roy, then spots the handgun ten feet away, arrow wedged into the pavement at its side. Everyone in the alley seems to look up as one, noticing the silhouette standing on the short rooftop behind Thea.

The Green Arrow. Thea doesn’t know the vigilante, has never seen him, knows that he attacked her mother (the would-be mass murderer) and saved Roy’s life (her boyfriend), but it’s impossible not to recognize the hood over his head and the quiver on his back. A hint of green creeps through the shadows where the light strikes his uniform.

“Shit,” someone swears. As the Green Arrow jumps down to the top of a dumpster, then the alley floor, the men scramble and run.

Star City’s hero fires arrows all the while. The ringleader gets pushed against the alley wall, thin bands of steel cable pinning him tight. Another gets pinned to a second dumpster, arrow somehow penetrating his jacket and the metal behind him without so much as nicking his flesh. The man already on the ground stays down, a fourth man gets sidelined with the Green Arrow’s bow when he makes a run for it. The fifth, injured arm hanging at his side, sinks to his knees and begs the Green Arrow not to shoot him.

Thea’s never seen anyone move so fast.

When it’s done, the Green Arrow stands tall and strong in the alley, a towering presence. Knowing that he’s saved her life, that he’s saved Roy’s life not once but twice now, and seeing him standing here in front of her, motionless after such fluidity – quiver on his back, bow in hand…

Thea can understand why people call the man in front of her a hero. He’s not as foreboding as she’d thought he’d be – she doesn’t feel remotely frightened anymore, now that he’s here – but he’s also somehow more. Not frightening but distant. Otherworldly. Separate. (No one would ever call him helpless.)

For the first time, Thea considers the rumors and gossip that say that Superman isn’t the only alien on their planet.

Then Green Arrow nods his head once at Roy. Roy grins back at him, grim and bloody but satisfied, and, at the Green Arrow’s gesture, pulls back his fist and knocks the fifth man to the ground. Strange as it is, the small gesture, the acknowledgement that he knows Roy, makes the hero before her seem more real.

“I’ve called the police,” Green Arrow says, voice rough and mechanically altered. “Are you three alright?”

Thea realizes she still has a death grip on the pipe she’d defended herself with. It clatters loudly to the ground when she lets go, drawing a flinch out of her and Sin both, Roy jerking his head around, worry filling his gaze as he takes her in. The Green Arrow only shifts his head slightly in her direction, the hood and the shadows masking any reaction.

Roy takes a few steps toward her, takes her hand. “We’re… we’re fine, thanks,” he says, after confirming that it is true by sweeping his gaze over her and Sin. (He doesn’t seem to take his own injuries into account.) With anyone else he might not have said so much, but Thea knows he idolizes the man in front of them.

The Green Arrow only nods once, as Thea leans into her boyfriend’s warmth beside her.

“Why did she leave?” Sin asks suddenly, bold and abrasive (and defensive), stepping toward the man who’d just saved their lives.

The Green Arrow shifts, posture considering. “You know why,” he says, tone lower but still jagged from the distortion.

Sin stands rigid next to Thea, seemingly braced for another fight. Her knife is still tight in her right hand, blood on the blade. She shakes her head, grits her teeth, looks away. “If she ever comes back…” she starts, more uncertain than Thea’s ever heard her.

The Green Arrow doesn’t move, his tone stays even. “You’ll know before I do,” he says.

He sounds honest to Thea, but is there really anyway to tell?

At Thea’s other side, Roy shifts.

“I want to do more,” he says.

“You do enough,” Green Arrow counters.

“I can help.”

“I don’t need that kind of help.”

“You’re favoring your right leg,” Roy shoots back.

The Green Arrow stands tall and firm, unwavering even when Roy’s accusation gets thrown at him. In the midst of the fight, Thea hadn’t noticed anything wrong. Roy apparently had though and from the hero’s silence he isn’t wrong.

“This isn’t up for discussion,” the Green Arrow says though. In one fluid movement he pulls an arrow from his quiver and fires it at the tall building off to the side. In seconds he’s gone, figure shrinking into the distance as the grappling arrow pulls him along.

Roy surges forward, as if he could follow him. “You need backup!” he calls out. But the Green Arrow’s already gone.

It’s only when Roy slumps slightly, defiance gone, letting the effect of the fight catch up to him, that Thea hears the sirens approaching. It isn’t long before the cops pull up to the front of the alley and the night only gets longer from there.

* * *

Barely more than a week. It’s been barely more than a week since Tommy had been kidnapped, less than a week since Oliver had found him. And in that short time span, Thea has somehow managed to put herself in mortal danger.

Oliver doesn’t blame her, can’t blame _her_ (it’s the men who’d attacked her he blames), but the sight of her in that alley with Roy and their other friend, five on three, Roy pressed to the ground, a pipe in Thea’s hand and a switchblade in her friend’s… It had almost been enough to stop his heart.

The _sheer_ terror. (First Tommy, then her, and neither attack had really had anything to do with him but he can’t help but feel _responsible,_ can’t help but feel that if only he’d been paying more attention…)

But he’d kept his mind, kept his wits about him, and Thea was fine.

_She’s fine_ , he tells himself firmly, racing back to Verdant on his motorbike. He’d stayed close enough long enough to see the men arrested and Felicity and Diggle would have told him had there been any new developments. But after everything that’s been happening lately, he still can’t get his heart to calm.

For three nights after Tommy’s return Oliver had spent dusk to dawn camped out on his friend’s fire escape, watching over him without anyone the wiser. Until they’d known for certain why Tommy had been taken, that the men who’d taken him hadn’t been hired by someone else, he’d been unwilling to leave his best friend without protection.

And even after he’d seemed to be in the clear – all five men had been long-time Glades residents, all five men had lost something (money or lodging) or someone (a friend, a family member) in the miniquake, none of the five men had received any large payments lately, all of them had said to the police that it had been their idea, and the only questions they’d asked Tommy had been about Malcolm Merlyn, Moira Queen, and the contents of the List – Oliver still hadn’t been able to relax. He’d asked Diggle to watch over Tommy during the day, instead of him (and that had been a tense conversation, though Diggle had agreed readily enough) and then proceeded to devote his nights to terrorizing the criminals of the Glades.

(If those five residents of the Glades could want revenge, want the List to target other criminal one-percenters on their own, then who’s to say others won’t follow their lead in the future. Oliver refuses to leave Tommy unprotected.)

He knows he’s been a bit more extreme, these past few days. Knows he’s taking out his frustrations on… well, not on men who don’t deserve it. The men he’s gone after deserve everything that he’s given them. But before, Oliver would not have been so brutal with them. Now, he doesn’t care so much. The gunrunners, the men bringing automatic weapons into the Glades without care of who would be hurt by them? They’re not going to be a problem anymore, not after Oliver had strung up their leader in front of a police station tonight, recorded confession tied to his chest.

And after seeing what almost happened with Thea…

Oliver has no regrets.

But he has plenty of fears.

With fire racing through his leg and fear heavy in his heart, Oliver limps his way through Verdant’s hidden side door. As he enters the building he straightens, pushing past the pain, pretending like the injury isn’t so bad that he should have been back hours ago to stitch his flesh together. It’s the same injury he’d received rescuing Tommy, the third time he's ripped through his stitching, and he doesn’t need to hear Felicity and Diggle scold him yet again for not taking care of his wounds. Besides he has more important things on his mind. His injury can wait.

“Thea?” he asks as soon as Felicity and Diggle turn his way.

“With Detective Lance,” Felicity responds quickly. “She, Roy, and her friend all got a clean bill of health.”

“And, if you’re curious, the police arrested Reed without hesitation.”

“Good,” Oliver says flatly. He hadn’t expected the police to let the man bringing machine guns into the Glades go – not after all the evidence he’d gathered – but it’s good to hear that Xavier Reed will be spending time behind bars anyway.

Felicity and Diggle exchange glances behind his back at his tense tone as he hangs up his bow and Oliver has to physically hold himself back from letting his body tense as well. He knows he’s been going overboard and he’s been waiting for the moment when the two of them would decide to call him out on the increased violence, the anger in his heart. If it must be tonight…

Well, it’s not like he’d be happier about it any other night. He’s been waiting for this since they came back, after all.

“Oliver,” Diggle starts, exactly as Oliver had pictured it happening, ever since he’d more or less refused their attempt to talk the first night they’d returned, “we need to talk, man.”

“About what?” Oliver asks blandly, turning back to face his allies. He keeps his back straight, his weight distributed to both legs. Now is definitely not the time to let them know of his injury, now is definitely not the time to show weakness. ( _You don’t need to worry about that, in front of these two_ , some part of him tries to convince himself. Once, that might have worked. But the three of them have not returned to the easy friendship they’d once had, and Oliver cannot bring himself to forget that. He does not want to think of these two as potential enemies, and yet…)

“I think you know what,” Diggle returns easily.

“No, I don’t. If the two of you have something you need to say…” Oliver waits. He’s not going to be the one to start this conversation.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Diggle says after a moment.

“And you’re pushing us away at the same time,” Felicity butts in.

They’re right, on both accounts, but why would Oliver tell them that? Why would he give them more ammunition to use against him, more weaknesses for them to strike at? ( _Don’t think of it that way_ , his brain tries to convince him yet again. And yet, he can’t stop himself.)

“I’m doing what needs to be done,” he retaliates, because that’s true too, in its own way.

“And you’re acting like you’re doing it alone.”

_I am,_ Oliver almost says, but he doesn’t. “I wouldn’t have found Reed without the two of you,” he says instead. It’s his first falsehood of the night. He wouldn’t have found Reed as quickly, that much is true, maybe not this week, or even this month, but he wouldn’t have given up until he’d found him either. Diggle and Felicity would have known that once, but sometimes he thinks they forget that he’d never planned to involve anyone else in his crusade.

It had always been his intention to do things alone. (So why does it bother him so much now? The lack of comradery between them where there was once friendship?)

“And yet, it didn’t escape my notice that as soon as Roy offered his help with Tommy you jumped on an extra set of hands while you stuck me in the foundry with Felicity,” Diggle says strongly, with a quick “no offense,” to the woman at his side.

“None taken,” she says, eyeing Oliver just as strongly. “ _He’s_ supposed to be your backup.”

“And if I need backup –”

“Are we supposed to believe that you’ll still call on us?” Felicity blurts out.

Diggle had started the ‘discussion’, Diggle had been the calm voice of reason trying to get all three of them to see things the same way, the same way he always had in the past. But Felicity, more than any of them, is the one most likely to let her emotions get to her. (She’s like Tommy that way, sometimes, Oliver has thought to himself more than once.)

Now the flood of anger and irritation that’s been welling up within her bursts free, spilled all over the foundry floor, and there’s no taking it back.

“You’re acting like we betrayed you!” she continues wildly. “Like we stabbed you in the back so now you’re afraid to turn around near us!”

Oliver stills, face blank. Her words are far too close to the truth for his comfort. “I never said that,” he replies carefully.

Felicity throws her hands in the air. “You didn’t have to!” she exclaims.

But what is the point of getting close if they’re just going to leave again the next time they disagree with him? What is the point of allowing themselves to return to what they had before if in another month or another week or another day Oliver is going to make another bad decision that pushes them from his life altogether? Who he has become has already pushed Tommy away and it is only because Laurel and Thea are unaware of the truth that they have stayed.

And not even a bad decision, just a decision that he will not back down from and that their morals will not allow themselves to agree with? Nothing’s changed, since they left, not with him at least. He’d still make the same calls now that had prompted them to leave in the first place.

They are so much better than him, living their lives without monsters in their souls. And maybe they should just leave. But Oliver doesn’t want them to, and it makes his heart ache to even think the thought. _Weak_ , he hears spat at him, in a hundred different voices at once. (In Fyers’ derisive tones and Slade’s cruel taunts and Waller’s calculating jibes and even in Anatoly’s need for power – and dozens of others’ harsh words through the years. Enemies. Allies. Even friends).

Part of him wants nothing more than to keep pushing them away. Part of him wants nothing more than for them to stay anyway.

But why would they stay, after the way he’s treated them? And what does it matter what he wants?

“I’m done for the night anyway,” he says instead, ignoring the argument, ignoring their conversation, ignoring his conflicted feelings. (Will they take it as an admission that Felicity’s words are correct? Oliver doesn’t know. Oliver doesn’t know how he wants them to take it.)

“And us?” Diggle asks, affronted and abrasive.

“You’re welcome to come back tomorrow,” Oliver says plainly. “But no one’s forcing you to be here.”

It’s not the answer they want to hear. Oliver’s not even sure it’s the answer he’d wanted to give. But those are the words that leave his mouth, and there’s no taking them back either.

* * *

After all the men have been arrested and taken away in ambulances and police cars, after Thea and Roy and Sin give their statements, after Detective Lance questions them about the Green Arrow with a look on his face that makes it clear he doesn’t think he’ll catch the vigilante regardless of what they tell him – after everything, the three of them wind up back at Roy’s house together.

In the small, still space, without threat or distraction, Thea all but collapses onto Roy’s bed, barely holding herself together. Roy pushes his body against hers, wraps an arm around her shoulders as if he can keep her from falling apart by sheer force. Sin hovers, indecision written in the curve of her eyebrows and the lines of her body.

_Don’t cry_ , Thea tells herself, but she doesn’t really think there are any tears in her anyway. She’s shaking and her heart’s in her throat and she wants to curl up against Roy and throw a hundred warm blankets on top of them, but her eyes don’t water. ( _Helplessness._ She _hates_ that feeling, hates the hollowness it leaves in her afterward.)

“That… that was pretty badass, Princess,” Sin says from the doorway. Rather than her usual derisive tone when she talks to Thea, she actually sounds slightly impressed.

Thea’s anger and frustration with the other woman are long forgotten. She offers a weak smile in return, remembering Sin’s moves with the knife, studying the bruise blossoming on the woman’s cheek. Roy had taken the brunt of the blows but she and Sin hadn’t escaped unscathed.

“Thanks,” she responds weakly. “You too.”

Sin’s smile is tremulous but real as she shifts her body weight from leg to leg.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” Sin tries to joke, but it mostly falls flat.

The truth is, Thea hadn’t known either, but she’d known in that moment that she hadn’t been about to go down without a fight. (She never wants to feel helpless again.) Remembering it makes her shiver and Roy’s arm tightens around her, holding her close.

“You alright, need anything?” he asks, not for the first time, words drowning in worry.

Thea quickly shakes her head. She doesn’t want Roy to leave her side.

Sin’s body shifts again, leaning further away from the two of them on the bed. She glances towards Roy’s front door.

“Stay,” Thea says suddenly, her mouth moving faster than her brain. Her anger from before is forgotten, seems like it was from a lifetime ago, a different life. She doesn’t want Roy to leave her side but she doesn’t want Sin to separate from them either. Aside from the sudden feelings of friendship after fighting for their lives together – although, she admits, those feelings might have been there all along – it doesn’t seem right to let Sin just walk away to nowhere, bruised and battered.

Sin starts, as startled as Thea is by her own suggestion.

She shakes her head, eyes flickering between Thea and Roy. “I couldn’t…” she starts, hesitation in the tremble of her words. 

Badass and as tough as Sin might be, Thea thinks she’s been affected by the attack too. She’s just better at hiding it.

“Stay,” she repeats, softer than before. This time, her words aren’t a surprise to her – she means them.

Still uncertain, Sin shifts again. But she doesn’t leave and, after a moment, she takes a few hesitant steps into the room.

On the bed, Thea shifts too, pressing herself harder against Roy, making space on her other side.

Sin pauses one last time, then takes the seat on the bed beside the two of them. Thea reaches over and takes her hand. Sin lets her.

* * *

* * *

_November 6, 2013, early afternoon:_

Oliver Queen does not know that Thea Queen was attacked in a back alley in the Glades last night. Oliver Queen does not know that Thea had fought back two men with a bent steel pipe. Oliver Queen does not know that Thea was shaking as Roy pulled her into his arms, blood dripping from his own wounds. (Oliver Queen also does not have any wounds of his own, no scrape on his forearm that’s mostly healed but itchy, no gouge through his thigh that constantly aches, will definitely scar, and has had to be re-stitched several times by now.)

_Oliver Queen_ does not know _any of that_ , Oliver reminds himself firmly as Thea saunters in through the front doors and into the living room at one in the afternoon, looking like she just woke up, sleep heavy in her eyes.

“Hey,” Oliver Queen says instead, light and easy and friendly, from where he’s watching the news, “up for a movie?” (Oliver Queen was _not_ strategically sitting there, waiting for his sister to come home. Oliver Queen is just a bit lazy and enjoys watching television.)

Thea flinches back at the sudden sound, and Oliver Queen might not know why, might not understand exactly how easily startled Thea might be for a while, but at least he’s still her brother, whatever he does not know about her life.

“You alright?” he lets himself asks with a frown.

Regaining control of herself, Thea turns to him with a glare. “Really? Now you care?”

And Oliver Queen is a bit of an idiot, a bit careless, a bit self-absorbed. His frown deepens even as Oliver’s heart aches at the hurt in Thea’s voice.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” (Has he missed something? Did something else happen to her that he hasn’t noticed with his recent focus on Tommy instead?)

Thea gapes at him for a moment. “What is wrong with you?” she demands from him. “Because I know you _do_ care! I saw you after the miniquake, after Malcolm, after _Mom_. But the instant your best friend gets kidnapped it’s like nothing matters to you anymore!”

Oliver Queen is a selfish idiot, but Thea’s right too – he does care, even if he doesn’t always know how to show it. Feeling a small measure of relief that he hasn’t missed something of his sister’s life (she’s just noticed Oliver Queen is avoiding Tommy, even if she doesn’t know the Arrow most definitely has not been), Oliver lets some of his very real doubts and uncertainties into his expression.

“Tommy… Tommy’s fine,” he says. “I didn’t, I didn’t want to crowd him.” And it’s somewhat true, because he knows Tommy must be tired by now of people asking how he feels, but it’s not the whole truth. He’s staying away because he keeps dreaming of Tommy flinching back from him, because he can’t take another rejection from his best friend, because he doesn’t think Tommy wants anything more to do with the Green Arrow.

“Oh yeah, he’s perfectly fine,” Thea snarls at him sarcastically. “Like you would know.”

She’s lashing out at him because of what happened last night, Oliver tells himself. Because the fright she’d endured has sent her emotions bubbling to the surface. The truth is though, she’s been angry for months. At their mother, mostly, and maybe even at herself for never noticing anything, but Oliver’s absence the past week can’t have helped. He hadn’t thought about what his avoidance of Tommy would look like from anyone else’s perspective.

“Have you ever even considered what _he_ wants?” Thea continues. “Instead of focusing on yourself, like always?”

Oliver feels the sting of her words but can’t bring himself to debate them, even if she is only lashing out in anger, even if she is deflecting from her own problems. Besides, that’s the image he presents to the world so Thea can’t help it if that’s what she sees. He has only himself to blame.

“I…” he starts to say. What is the right response in this situation? He cannot be honest, cannot tell Thea about Green Arrow and his real reason for avoiding Tommy.

Maybe though, maybe he can toe the line.

“The last time Tommy and I saw each other before… Before. We, uh…” he shakes his head. “We fought. It didn’t end well.” Truth, mostly, even if he’s avoiding the entire reason for their disagreement in the first place. But also a lie. Oliver – as the Arrow – had spoken to Tommy the night he’d been rescued. And though their previous argument is part of the reason he’s staying away, the larger part lies in Tommy’s reaction that night.

Thea scoffs at him. “I saw what Tommy was like when you _died_ ,” she reminds him harshly. “Apparently you don’t feel the same about him.”

It’s not the same thing and they both know it, but the words hit hard nevertheless. Oliver reels backward, stunned by the comparison and the fact that Thea was the one to voice it. His sister doesn’t give him time to reply, storming her way up the stairs.

Oliver stares after her, as he hears her door slam shut upstairs. _Of course he cares about Tommy_. As if what is left of his heart hadn’t imploded at Tommy’s kidnapping. As if the sight of his best friend, beaten and bloody, hadn’t ignited his fury and fueled his worry. As if he hadn’t sat on the cold, hard steel outside Tommy’s apartment for three nights, listening to his friend wake from his nightmares over and over as Oliver had kept a silent watch. (He’d been outside Roy’s last night, though there’s no convenient fire escape for him so he’d been hidden a short distance away.)

He’s still barely slept since he’d gotten Laurel’s first phone call no matter how much he tells himself that he needs to. The emptiness in his stomach reminds him that he still hasn’t eaten since before his shift as the Green Arrow last night. He’s been setting food out in the foundry just to remind himself to keep his energy up, when he remembers. His leg aches with a wound he hasn’t been treating properly. And his first thought upon learning that Thea was okay and separating temporarily from Roy was to come home, so that he could be there for her when she returned.

_Of course he cares_.

But he still hasn’t gone to visit Tommy.

Oliver is standing in the foyer when Thea returns, hurrying down the stairs with a bag thrown over her shoulder. She pauses to study him.

“I’m gonna stay at Roy’s for a few nights,” she says, tight and biting. “If there’s anything left of my brother in you, you’ll go see your best friend.” And then she stalks forward without waiting for another word from him and Oliver watches the front door close behind her.

Still, Oliver stands there, frozen by the emotions warring within him. But Thea’s right. He’s let his fear of rejection overpower his concern for Tommy, and that’s not the right way to react – that’s not how Tommy would react, that’s not what Tommy deserves. Oliver’s not Tommy. He’ll never be as good as Tommy, never have that same light inside of him. But maybe that makes it his duty to make sure Tommy keeps his light.

Oliver remembers coming home. Seeing his mother and Thea and Tommy had been the best part of it, more than the familiar environment or the warm food. He still remembers being encased in Tommy’s firm hug.

The least he can do is do the same for his best friend, and it only speaks to the monster Oliver’s become that he hasn’t done it already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 21: Discussions, will be up tomorrow, though I'm very busy this week so it'll probably be late again.


	21. Discussions

_November 6, 2013, early afternoon:_

Hesitation lingers in the air. Indecision and uncertainty. Oliver has stared down killers and killed himself. He’s looked into the eyes of the men he’s tortured and been tortured himself. He’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and faced it with his head held high. And yet a simple wooden door is all that stands between him and his best friend – because Tommy will always be his best friend, even if it’s been a long time since Oliver’s been certain whether or not the reverse is also true – and Oliver can’t bring himself to breach it.

A knock, that’s all he needs. The simple rapping of knuckles on wood. Then it will be up to Tommy whether or not to let him in, then it will be Tommy’s decision of how to proceed. All Oliver has to do is knock.

But his fists are clenched at his side, his body tense. He’s not sure he’s ready to hand the decision over to Tommy because he’s almost certain he won’t like the result. Better to exist here, in this agonizing limbo, then to know for certain that Tommy hates him.

Oliver flexes his fingers, rubs them together and longs for his bow. _You owe it to him_ , he reminds himself. And it’s not even about him and Tommy, not even about Tommy’s disdain for the Green Arrow and his fear about what Oliver is capable of. It’s about the fact that Tommy was kidnapped and Oliver is his friend and he should be there for him. If it hadn’t been for the Green Arrow, if it had been someone else who had rescued Tommy, Oliver _would_ have been.

Quickly, before he can stop himself, before he can bring himself to regret the decision, or turn around and walk away, Oliver reaches up and knocks. _It doesn’t matter what this does to me_ , he tells himself. _This is about Tommy._

Tommy, frightened and afraid. He’d been there for Walter, after his kidnapping, offered to talk with the man whenever he’d needed it. Maybe Tommy hadn’t been missing nearly as long, but how could Oliver offer that to a stepfather he’d barely known at that point and not his best friend since childhood?

He hates himself for his own hesitation even as he fears Tommy’s reaction, but he doesn’t regret coming here today, only that it took Thea’s prompting to get him here.

When the door does open a few seconds later, Tommy isn’t the one behind it. It is only because of Oliver’s paranoia and extensive research that he recognizes the face behind the door at all. Marta Montgomery, former head nurse at Rebecca Merlyn’s clinic and Tommy’s mentor when it comes to reopening it in his mother’s name.

She smiles warmly at him and Oliver forces himself to relax and return the smile, light and easy. He focuses, shifts his body language to be more open, more receptive.

“You must be Mr. Queen,” she says.

“Call me Oliver,” he returns with a charming grin. He’s not surprised she recognizes him too. “We haven’t had the pleasure.”

Her own smile gains a bit of mischief in it. “Oliver then. I’m Marta Montgomery, I’ve been helping young Tommy with the clinic. I’m afraid I’m not so easy to charm, but I’ll let Tommy know you’re here.”

Despite the fact that his grin had mostly been plastered on for her benefit, because it is expected of him, it shifts into something more genuine at the woman’s words, at her friendly and amused tone and the way she isn’t afraid to tease. (It helps that he knows the woman in front of him, in her seventies now, is not a physical threat, and that she has no reason to think he is.)

“Thank you,” he replies sincerely, waiting at the open door as she disappears inside. He tries not to focus on what goes on in the apartment and lets the following exchange of words become nothing more than background murmurs. He doesn’t need to invade Tommy’s privacy any more than he already has, not for this. (He’s read the transcript of Tommy’s interview with the police, knows every detail that Tommy will probably never be able to talk about again.) He tries not to let his mind linger on how Tommy might be processing Oliver’s arrival.

After a moment, Montgomery reappears at the door, purse over her shoulder. “Feel free to head on in,” she says warmly, clearly preparing to step out herself.

“You don’t have to leave on my account,” Oliver says quickly. Having her there would be a buffer, an excuse for him and Tommy not to talk about the elephant in the room.

“Oh, I was heading out anyway,” she tells him easily. “Besides, I think you boys could use some space to talk.” The reproachful look she gives him tells him that she’s entirely aware that Oliver hasn’t visited since the kidnapping.

Oliver shifts uncomfortably where he stands, losing his polite façade, but remembers to stand aside as she steps out. He watches her go for a moment, hand on the door, then steps inside and closes himself in the apartment with Tommy.

It’s Tommy and Laurel’s apartment, a place he’s been dozens of time, a layout he’s long since memorized, and not a place that technically contains any threat. But exit strategies are at the forefront of Oliver’s mind as he steps through the front entrance to the living room.

Tommy’s seated on the couch, clearly waiting for him, and he offers a tight smile when Oliver steps into the room.

And Oliver’s not quite ready to hear what Tommy has to say, but he also doesn’t want to ask how Tommy’s doing, remind him of the trauma he’d been through, voice the same question that Tommy’s no doubt heard countless times by now (Oliver can still hear it sometimes, ringing in his ears, that empty concern that comes with a complete lack of understanding of what he’d been through). So: “She seemed nice,” is what he says instead.

Tommy’s smile relaxes ever so slightly, though his shoulders remain tense. “Yeah, she is,” he says, taking the out. “She’s told me a lot about my mom, actually.”

Oliver steps further into the room, notes the get-well cards artfully arranged on the small table in the corner and the vase of fresh flowers beside them. “And the clinic?”

“You’re not here to talk about the clinic.”

Oliver glances over at his best friend, absorbs the deadpan, matter-of-fact tone and the way Tommy is eyeing him warily. Tommy doesn’t want to talk about that night either, he realizes, though whether it’s out of a fear of reliving it or a fear of what Oliver is capable of he couldn’t say. Probably both.

“I’m here to talk about you,” he counters, purposefully keeping his tone light. “And the clinic’s a part of your life now.” His feet take him on a quarter-circuit around the room as he talks, almost circling Tommy. He pauses at the table with the cards in the corner, his new stance giving him a good view of both the window and the direction of the front door.

“She’s been coming over, for lunches. Now that Laurel’s back at work.”

Oliver lets a small smirk grace his features, even though he can see how the light conversation is straining at Tommy. “Still don’t know how to cook?”

But the days of them pretending there isn’t a third person between them are over. Before, Tommy had managed to put aside his knowledge of and unease with the Arrow to laugh and joke with Oliver like old times. They’d ribbed each other like the best friends they’d been, without mention of Oliver’s nightly activities. Tommy doesn’t seem to be able to do that anymore. His answering smile is weak and shaky, his gaze distracted.

“You know, Carter Bowen sent me one of those,” he answers, nodding to the cards behind Oliver. “With the number of the best trauma psychologist he knows.”

“Perfect Carter Bowen,” Oliver says, but he lets his tone fall flat. They’re following the script now and they both know it. He studies Tommy, takes in the bags under his eyes and the wariness in his gaze and the tension in his body. Pretending Tommy is fine is not going to help things. Asking him about that night will probably only make things worse. Oliver knows it’s not the past (not reliving the trauma) or the present (wondering if he’ll ever be alright again) he needs to focus on, but the future (where he goes from here).

“Let’s go for a walk,” he offers. Tommy needs to know there’s a life beyond this, beyond the here and the now and the nightmares. (Oliver doesn’t have a hope of that. He’s too damaged, done things he can never come back from. But Tommy… Tommy still has a future. Oliver won’t let him lose sight of that.)

Tommy flinches back, startled. “What?”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Oliver repeats. He moves for the front door before Tommy can say no, and only turns around again when he reaches it.

Tommy’s stood and walked to the doorway of the living room, but he’s clearly holding himself back, clearly avoiding the front door.

It’s fear, Oliver knows and recognizes. He can see it, clear as day. But this is not a fear Tommy needs to keep, this is not one he’d ever wanted for his best friend. He opens the door, pulls it into the apartment and moves himself past it, then looks back again. Still Tommy hesitates, lingers in the doorway beyond the one Oliver has just walked through. His body leans forward, ever so slightly, then back again.

“You coming?” Oliver asks, as though it’s a forgone conclusion, as if there’s no chance that Tommy won’t follow him. It’s not because he’s confident that Tommy will, but because it’s what Tommy needs. Whatever Tommy feels toward Oliver – fear or hatred or just disgust – he cannot remain in the apartment for the rest of his life.

Tommy shifts again, hesitates, grimaces, then takes quick steps forward. Oliver holds the door open for him as he passes through and shuts it again behind him. Tommy almost – almost – flinches at the sound, but manages to hold himself still even as he resolutely keeps himself from looking backward. Out in the hallway, brighter lights shining down upon them, he looks pale and drawn, and he swallows nervously.

Oliver gives him a moment.

“It’s decent weather, for November,” he says.

Tommy meets his gaze, smiles weakly. “Yeah?”

“Bit warmer than what I remember, but at least I was around for the fall last year.” Oliver’s words are completely intentional, a way to remind Tommy that he knows what the other man is going through. He’d lived it. (He’s still living it, still waking from nightmares and scrubbing blood off his hands on the bad nights and sometimes taking a moment to remind himself that Star City is real, that he’d made it home. But Oliver had been through hell for five years, Tommy’d suffered for two days. His inability to recover will not be Tommy’s as well – this thing that he’s turned into won’t replace Tommy.)

Tommy swallows again. “Right,” he says, eyeing Oliver in a new light.

Oliver takes slow steps down the hallway. Almost unconsciously, Tommy follows.

They make hesitant and halting small talk as they wait for the elevator and let it carry them down to the ground floor, first about the clinic, then about Verdant and how well Thea is handling the night club. But when they reach the lobby, and the glass front doors that display the street outside quite easily, Tommy hesitates yet again.

Oliver doesn’t give him enough time to doubt himself. He steps forward, opening the door for his friend. But he doesn’t ignore Tommy’s reaction entirely either, understanding it all too well. “I know you know that you’re safe here,” he says, though that’s not quite true (Oliver knows perfectly well how easily the apartment building could be infiltrated, but he also knows how safe Tommy _feels_ here, and that is what is important now). “But you can’t stay here forever. Eventually you’ll have to go somewhere where your safety isn’t guaranteed.”

Backs to the walls and eyes on the exits, tracking everyone and everything that moves, keeping a mental map of all possible weapons in an area – Oliver knows all too well how to handle unsafe environments. For him, these days, every location counts as unsafe. Even at Queen Manor, in the foundry basement, he can’t quite convince himself that he’s safe. (Especially with the tension between him and Felicity and Diggle, his knowledge that they will only rebuke him again in the future.) But, again, Oliver thinks to himself, firmly and unwavering, _that will not be Tommy._

Tommy eyes him carefully, then nods once. Together, they make their way onto the sidewalk. The sun overhead shines brightly, puffs of white clouds scattered carelessly about the blue sky. True to Oliver’s earlier word the day is warm, warmer than most November afternoons. Other pedestrians line the sidewalks on both sides of the street, not crowded but still well used, and the street parking is entirely filled despite the work hour.

The two of them join the throng, taking steady if slow steps forward. Oliver’s leg still aches horrendously, but he does not let an ounce of that pain reflect on his face or in his movements.

“Do you think you’ll continue to work at Verdant?”

Tommy’s steps falter. He almost stumbles but catches himself and takes a few hurried steps forward to keep himself by Oliver’s side. Before he can misinterpret what Oliver is saying, Oliver speaks again.

“Thea has things pretty well in hand, and it has been over a month now. You’re still club manager, of course, but I’m not sure you’ll really need to do much anymore.”

He hadn’t meant to suggest that Tommy’s recovery was keeping him from work, or that it would keep him from Verdant indefinitely, and from the way Tommy’s shoulders relax at his additional words the other man seems to understand that.

He shrugs, casually. “I don’t know. Thea really threw herself into this more than I thought she would.”

Oliver lets himself grin. “You too?”

“What can I say, she surprised us all.”

And she had, but not entirely, not all the way. “She needed an outlet,” Oliver says solemnly. He’d seen the restless anger in her, the need to do something. It had evaporated somewhat in the wake of her starting work and classes at the same time, but ever since they’d learned of their mother’s refusal to go to trial it seems to have returned. (Tommy’s kidnapping hasn’t helped any with that and, judging from her reaction to him, her own brush with danger has only made it worse as well.)

Tommy stiffens again at the words, then seems to force himself to relax. “Maybe… maybe I do too,” he says. His tone suggests he’s mostly speaking to himself, considering his own words.

“You have the clinic,” Oliver reminds him.

“Yeah. I do, don’t I? We were going to finalize on a building soon but…” he trails off, and it’s all too obvious what had interrupted his plans. Tommy glances over at Oliver, eyes moving up and down, then glances away again.

Oliver is all too grateful he has been ignoring the pain still in his leg, walking normally without a trace of a limp. That is not something Tommy needs to see either, though his friend’s searching gaze reminds him of his injury, triggers a sudden throb as Oliver sets his foot down against hard pavement. He ignores it, as he has been, and searches his mind for a way to continue the conversation without discussing Tommy’s kidnapping.

But Tommy stops where they walk, forcing Oliver to pause alongside him. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then speaks.

“We can’t talk about what we need to here.”

Agreement and disagreement. A desire to avoid the coming conversation, and the thought that Tommy needs some peace and quiet, someone who won’t ask him how he’s doing, after everything. But if Tommy’s ready to talk…

“No,” Oliver agrees. He watches his best friend, closely, warily. He still doesn’t want to have this conversation, still fears what Tommy has to tell him, but he no longer believes that Tommy hates him. The man who stands beside him isn’t that good at hiding his emotions and there has been wariness and perhaps even distrust between them, but not hate. Maybe the violence he’d seen in Oliver that night hasn’t entirely scared Tommy away.

Tommy glances up and down the street, evaluating. Their steps have been slow, but they are still several blocks from the apartment. Surrounded by public buildings as they are – restaurants and shops and other businesses or apartment buildings – there are no good places for them to retreat to to have a private conversation.

And even at the apartment, Oliver fears that an argument between the two of them might be overheard. But he’s not sure there’s another option. While he might feel comfortable in an abandoned building, Tommy most certainly would not, especially given recent circumstances. And Verdant is out of the question as well – it is too much of a reminder of the night of his kidnapping, on top of being the location of the Green Arrow’s secret base.

Briefly, Oliver entertains the idea of taking Tommy to his back up location, but he dismisses that as well. Despite the importance of the conversation they need to have, he is not willing to give up that secret, not yet.

“Want to come back to the manor?” Oliver offers. Thea is spending the day (and night) with Roy. The place will be empty. And it’s a familiar environment, a place Tommy is comfortable in and Oliver knows every inch of. “We can invite Laurel over later, make a dinner out of it?” (If Tommy’s still comfortable even being near him, if the ensuing conversation doesn’t shred what is left of their friendship to pieces. But Oliver has to proceed as if all is normal, not only for Tommy’s sake, but also for his own. He cannot bear the thought of Tommy hating him (but he will, if it means Tommy is safe).)

Tommy hesitates again, taking a moment to think it over. Oliver gives him the time freely and hides the heaviness in his heart and the dread in his gut the same way he hides the hole in his thigh.

When Tommy agrees, relief blows through him like a weak wind on a hot summer day – sudden and welcome but gone all too quickly. Tommy’s agreement means that he does not fear Oliver, likely does not hate him, but it also guarantees nothing.

There is no telling how the following conversation will proceed.

* * *

Safe from watching eyes and listening ears in the foyer of Queen Manor, Tommy turns to face Oliver. He’s dreading this conversation, doesn’t want to talk about those two nights and that cold, hard cell – doesn’t even want to _think_ about it, but he also knows Oliver is right. It’s something he can’t avoid forever. (What does Oliver want to talk about though? Is he here as a friend? As the Green Arrow? And is there really any distinction between the two? Tommy doesn’t think so. Not anymore.)

“I… I don’t know if I ever, thanked you,” he starts, hesitant, stumbling over his own words, because it’s easier than talking about the terror, the violence, the pain. “For… for coming for me.” ( _A figure, looming over him, dark and menacing until Tommy had caught a hint of green, seen the quiver over the man’s shoulder and the bow in his hand. And then nothing but relief, sheer relief, because Oliver had come for him, of course Oliver had come for him, how could he have ever doubted?_ Tommy relives the moment for the thousandth time, staring into his best friend’s eyes. He had never been so grateful for what Oliver was capable of and had been only happier to see the man at one other point in his life.)

Oliver just studies him in return, expression blank and unreadable. “I should have been there sooner,” he replies.

Tommy blinks, torn from his flashback by the plain words. He can’t say he wouldn’t have preferred that but what had happened to him had _not_ been Oliver’s fault. Oliver cannot blame himself for what happened. Tommy won’t let him.

And yet, despite all this, despite his overwhelming relief and gratitude toward the man in front of him, Tommy cannot help but be wary. For the first time, he has truly seen a glimpse of what Oliver is capable of, knows the darkness inside his best friend. Oliver had done all that for him (shattered and broken bones; blood, pooling over the concrete floor, metallic scent sharp in the air; the moans and cries of pain from distraught men – Tommy cannot forget that sight either), and though he does not regret that, cannot say that at that moment he had not wanted it, he does not want it again. The _power_ he has, knowing what Oliver would do if he asked it of him.

(If Tommy had wanted his kidnappers dead, if that had been a notion he had ever entertained, he thinks, he fears… No. He knows. If Tommy had asked Oliver to kill those men, he knows Oliver would have done it for him. That is a terrible power to have.

Tommy would never ask – it is a thought he has entertained only in his darkest moments, a contemplation of what-if rather than any true desire for revenge – but now he’s seen what Oliver will do for him. He cannot forget that. He must be careful with his words.)

“You came as soon as you could,” he counters, and though he has no way of knowing whether or not that is true, he finds himself believing his own words wholeheartedly and they tumble from his mouth passionate and hurried. This… is not the direction he’d thought this conversation would go, Oliver chastising himself for not being faster, but Tommy finds that he isn’t really surprised.

Oliver only shifts where he stands, not even so much as nodding in agreement. “If you don’t want to talk about this,” he says instead. “I understand. I’m not asking you to relive it. But… I do need to know if… If you want me around. During your recovery.” The words are as hesitant as Oliver gets these days, tinged with uncertainty but still gruff and bordering on emotionless.

Tommy finds himself taken aback yet again, startled once more by Oliver’s words. He’d thought… Well, truth be told he hadn’t actually been sure why Oliver had taken to avoiding him. He’d seen the news about the gunrunners in the Glades, listened to the announcement of the arrest of Xavier Reed, and had simply assumed Oliver had been busy. It had hurt but now more than ever he understood the pain and terror that Oliver was saving people from. If Oliver was out there preventing anyone else from suffering like he had, could he really be upset with his friend for that? No matter how much jealousy had flared within him, no matter how much he’d wanted Oliver at his side.

Now he revises his earlier thinking. _Is it possible…?_ he wonders. Had Oliver stayed away because he’d thought _Tommy_ wouldn’t want to see him? It doesn’t make any sense, but Oliver is still watching him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

But then, he’d been reluctant to see Oliver too, hadn’t he been? He’d tensed upon learning the other man was at the door, stumbled over his words upon greeting him.

_That was more about the kidnapping then Oliver_ , he tells himself now, thoughts half-scolding. What do you say to a man who’d used his skills to save your life after you’d spent months reluctant to get close to him because of those same skills?

“Of course I want you around,” he blurts out, and regrets it almost instantly. He means it, but… Maybe he doesn’t.

Except of course he does, it’s just… It’s not Oliver he has a problem with, hasn’t been since the Undertaking really, since that morning in July when he’d offered to help. It’s Oliver’s secrets. It’s the lies. Especially to Laurel.

But he’s said the words now, and he’s not about to take them back.

Oliver raises an eyebrow in response. “Tommy…” he starts, low and careful.

“Look,” Tommy interrupts. “I get it now. I know what happened to me doesn’t even come close, but I understand why you don’t want to talk about the island, why you don’t want to talk about what happened to you or how you became…” he falters, gestures at the new Oliver in front of him. “But we’ve been over this too. Whatever happened to you, you’re still Oliver. You’re still my best friend.”

Oliver does not look so convinced, but Tommy will say the words over and over again until Oliver believes them.

“You’re still my best friend. I know it’s not the same,” Tommy repeats. “You don’t have to tell me that. But you’re also right that… that I need to talk about it. And if I need to talk about it, I can only imagine…” he shakes his head, shaken yet again by the thought of how much Oliver must have suffered to become the man he is now.

“We’re not here for me,” Oliver counters.

“Well maybe we should be.”

Oliver opens his mouth but Tommy cuts him off.

“I don’t have a problem with you being the Green Arrow. Not the way you think I do. But I have a problem with the fact that you were never going to tell me. You can’t do this alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Bullshit,” Tommy swears. “You forget I know Digg and Felicity too. I know you’re still keeping secrets from me. I know _they’re_ still keeping secrets from me. But I don’t care about that! What I also know is that the three of you are crap at hiding the fact that you’re fighting with each other. I don’t know why, and you don’t have to tell me, but you need to let someone in Oliver.” (Felicity’s visited him, Digg’s popped by to discuss guarding him during the day – both of them stiffened when he’d mentioned Oliver.)

“I did! And they disagreed with my choices and left!” A tight thread of anger is woven into Oliver’s voice, his body having grown stiffer and stiffer as Tommy had spoken, and Tommy realizes that, with all he’s said and done and with all that has happened to Oliver over the months, this is the first time he can remember hearing Oliver raise his voice since he’s been home. And he’s barely doing that, words only slightly more elevated than normal. “You made it clear you didn’t want to be involved from the beginning,” Oliver continues harshly. “I don’t see what’s changed. I’m a killer, remember?”

Tommy reels back at his own words. (How did their discussion of his kidnapping lead to this? Does every conversation they have these days end with them fighting over Oliver’s secrets, over the Arrow?) Surely Oliver can’t still think he believes that? His stunned silence is the wrong move though. Oliver strides from the room, like a panther on the prowl, and the door slams shut behind him. Running away again. Avoiding conversations.

And Tommy doesn’t have a hope of catching him. Even through his disbelief at what Oliver had just thrown into his face, Tommy scoffs. He’s still frustrated with his best friend and Oliver won’t stick around long enough to fix it. He thought they’d been making progress, working his way up to talking about his kidnapping, but then he’d had to bring up the island, the fight between Team Arrow, and Oliver had shut him out again.

_He_ knows _I don’t have a hope of catching up to him_ , Tommy thinks angrily. Then his mind freezes. Oliver knows it – and expects it. He walked away because when was the last time anyone bothered to chase after Oliver Queen? Tommy glances toward the front of the building, the massive driveway that hides Queen Manor from the rest of the world. He hasn’t heard an engine yet. Pulling open the door that Oliver just exited, Tommy sprints.

* * *

Oliver’s sitting on his motorcycle, helmet in hand, keys in the ignition, trying to calm his breathing before he hits the road, when Tommy sprints into view, panting. He thinks about revving the engine then and there but… Tommy’d come after him even after Oliver had reminded him of the monster his best friend has become. That says something. Oliver’s not sure what, but it’s something.

He lowers the helmet. “What do you want?” he asks, calm as he can manage. There’s no accusation in his words – he’s not mad at _Tommy_ – just a matter of fact question.

Tommy bends over slightly, catching his breath. “To apologize,” he manages to get out.

If it were any other day, any other circumstances, Oliver might have responded with a grin and a laugh. With: “An apology from Tommy Merlyn? How rare. Should I feel honored?” And Tommy would have laughed back and elbowed him and finished his apology. But it isn’t any other day. Hasn’t been since Tommy’d seen the Arrow lower his hood.

Instead Oliver shakes his head. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he says. It isn’t Tommy’s fault he can’t talk about the island. It isn’t Tommy’s fault Diggle and Felicity disagree with his methods and are bound to leave him again sometime soon. It isn’t Tommy’s fault that Oliver has agreed to keep Sara’s life a secret and still longs to tell her family she’s alive.

It isn’t Tommy’s fault that Oliver’s a monster.

“I’m the one who’s been avoiding you,” he continues.

“Only because I keep avoiding you,” Tommy counters. “Agreeing to help and then backing out again, more than once? I shouldn’t have done that. Look, the reason I don’t like talking about the Green Arrow – the real reason I’ve been avoiding you, and the basement, has nothing to do with _you_.”

Oliver doesn’t bother to hide the slightly incredulous look that creeps across his face and Tommy frowns at the expression.

“I’m serious. It’s not… it’s not about…” but Tommy hesitates to even say it, because maybe he thinks it isn’t about the violence anymore but of course it is. How could it not be? Oliver knows the sort of man Tommy’s become: honest, trustworthy, loyal, and without a shred of violence in his own soul. Aside from his mother’s murder, violence has never been a part of Tommy’s life, and it’s a part of the world that he still doesn’t understand.

“It’s about Laurel,” Tommy pushes on, bypassing the topic entirely. “She knows you – knows both of you, but she doesn’t know they’re the same person.”

“You can’t tell her.”

Tommy shoots him a look, affronted and angered. “And I won’t, but … But I want to. I want _you_ to. She deserves to know.”

But Oliver shakes his head. “This is why I never wanted to tell you, Tommy. Because knowing my secret puts you in a place you don’t want to be in.” Well, that and other reasons. Like the looks Tommy gives him sometimes and his best friend’s wariness when Oliver is in costume. Like the nightmares he has where he hears Tommy call him a monster over and over.

Like the way Tommy had tensed when the Green Arrow had arrived to rescue him, instead of relaxed. (As if he’d still thought there was a possibility that Oliver could ever hurt him.)

Tommy knows, and for a million and one reasons Oliver had never wanted him to. But all those reasons boil down to just one, in the end: Oliver is a monster who ruins the lives of those closest to him. He hadn’t wanted that for Tommy. ( _Doesn’t_ want it for Laurel, or Thea, or anyone else from his old life. Maybe that was why it had been easy – relatively speaking – to tell Diggle and Felicity. Oliver had taken Digg looking at him like a monster in the beginning, a near stranger at that point. Taking it from Tommy was tearing what was left of his heart into even smaller pieces.)

“Except if she _knew_ –”

“I’m not ready to lose both of you.” Oliver cuts Tommy off before he can get started. He understands what Tommy wants, he really does, but he can’t… Laurel’s only just barely gotten over her hatred of him. He could have suffered it again to bring Sara back into her life (and that’s another secret Tommy doesn’t know, a secret he would never be able to keep from Laurel), but he can’t suffer it simply to ease Tommy’s burdens.

It’s selfish of him, he knows that perfectly well. It’s wrong and it’s cruel, and it’s just another example of the monster Oliver’s become. Because after everything that’s happened, _especially_ after everything that’s happened, he can’t tell Laurel.

But Tommy’s staring down at him where he still sits on his motorcycle, eyes wide and slightly confused. “You haven’t lost me.”

A nice thought, a pleasant fantasy, but it’s not true, even if Tommy thinks it is.

Oliver shakes his head lightly. “You tensed up the second you saw me. I understand that you’re afraid of me, you don’t –”

“Afraid of you?” Tommy interrupts incredulously. “I’m not afraid of you, Oliver, I was afraid _for_ you! You should have heard the way those guys were talking about the Green Arrow. I know you’re good but excuse me for not wanting to see my best friend get hurt!”

Despite himself, Oliver blinks at the declaration, and at the heated way Tommy speaks.

“And yeah, maybe I was a bit startled when the door opened but did you ever think that that was because _every other time_ it was opened by someone who wanted me _dead_?!”

It’s Tommy’s turn to storm off in a huff, to walk away in anger, Oliver thinks absently to himself. But Tommy doesn’t. He stands there, breathing hard, almost shaking as he waits for Oliver’s reply.

Oliver replays the entire afternoon in his head, the rollercoaster of emotions they’ve been on. The hesitance of their initial meeting, neither of them sure what to say to the other. Tommy, once they’d been safe at the manor, trying to get him to open up and Oliver running away from that. Frustration on both their ends, more with themselves than with each other.

Their tempers had been running hot coming into it, and it hasn’t gone well for either of them. Oliver’s been on edge far too often lately, waiting for his next screw up and for Felicity and Diggle to leave. Like with Thea, Tommy’s kidnapping and Moira’s secrets haven’t helped with that. Thea’s own brief moment in danger hadn’t helped either.

And Tommy’s still recovering, still dealing with an ordeal that most people never even have to consider might happen to them.

Maybe he has been overthinking things too much. He looks down at the helmet still in his hands and moves to hang it on the handlebars.

He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath. “I… I don’t talk about the island. I don’t want to. But, if you ever… if you ever need someone to talk to, I’ll be there.” He’s echoing the words he’d said to Walter, all those months ago, and he means it just as sincerely as he had back then. This is what he’d come to Tommy to talk about, after all. It’s only right that he makes the offer. And he means it. Wholeheartedly. With every fiber of his being.

Tommy relaxes ever so slightly, his trembling more visible. “I…” he wavers where he stands.

Within a second Oliver has fluidly dismounted the bike, moving to stand at Tommy’s side and hold him steady. Tommy’s had almost a week to recover but he’s not Oliver. He can’t just ignore the emotions he doesn’t want to feel and move on with his life. He’s never experienced anything remotely similar to what he’d just gone through.

“Let’s head back inside,” Oliver says gently.

Tommy nods wordlessly and lets Oliver lead him.

* * *

Nothing really gets settled, that night. Tommy still wants to tell Laurel, still wants Oliver to tell Laurel, still despairs the secrets that he now has to keep. Oliver still refuses to tell, still refuses to talk about the island, still waits for the day when Tommy will decide he has had enough of the Green Arrow and his secrets.

But they eat dinner together, mostly in comfortable silence. They accept who the other is and what the other wants, even if they can’t give it to the other. Oliver feels relief that Tommy is not yet turning away from the monster he is. Tommy, presumably, feels relief to be in the company of someone who understands what he’s going through and will not press him to talk about it. 

There is discomfort, but it’s out in the open, not some unspoken thing.

After dinner they settle down to a movie, a comedy not from the five years that Oliver was gone but one that was released within the past few months. Neither of them has seen it and it pulls a few laughs from them both, or soft chuckles and small grins at the very least.

It is a peaceful sort of unease, if that even makes any sense, Oliver thinks to himself. Peaceful because they are still friends, because even this was unable to tear them apart. And yet still uneasy, still fragile.

Dropping Tommy back off at the apartment that night, Oliver lingers at the door. He’d gone up in the elevator with his friend, easily willing to provide him even this small measure of safety and unable to express his relief that Tommy feels safer around him at all in any other way.

“If you ever need anything…” he reminds his friend, still hesitant, still uncertain.

Tommy nods and swallows. “I’m… I’m sorry I can’t be of more help,” he says, and seems to mean it honestly. “But I can’t keep any more secrets from Laurel.”

“And you shouldn’t have to,” Oliver agrees, though he remembers Tommy’s voice in his ear on those rare occasions the other man came down to the basement with longing. “The three of us will work things out. I’m not alone.”

He’s not sure that it’s true, not convinced at all, but the words get Tommy to relax ever so slightly. He nods, then with a spin of the doorknob and a twist of his body, disappears inside his apartment.

Oliver stands there for a moment, listening to the distorted sounds as Laurel greets Tommy, unable to make out any words, then turns and leaves.

He spends that night on Tommy’s fire escape again, and answers the man’s texts when he wakes from a nightmare, but his mood is more content than worried, simply wanting closeness instead of being afraid for his friend’s safety.

After everything, he still hasn’t lost Tommy. (He thinks he can handle anything, could handle Felicity and Diggle leaving again, so long as Tommy stays by his side.)

* * *

* * *

_November 8, 2013, afternoon:_

As Oliver nears the conference room, the first thing he hears are the words “Stellmoor International.” The irritation coursing through him surges forward.

“How many times do I have to say it,” he says angrily, barging into the room. “I am not selling Queen Consolidated – no matter how persistent Stellmoor, or any other company is.”

The board startles at his entrance, a few members even standing in alarm.

“Mr. Queen. Nice of you to show up.” It’s Pritchard who’d spoken, and Pritchard who stands, facing off with Oliver.

( _As if he would stand a chance in a real fight._ )

Oliver forces himself to relax ever so slightly, shifts the mildly irritated expression on his face to one that just barely looks contrite. Some irritation and righteous indignation will help him in the coming argument but not too much. The men before him do not appreciate being told of their own wrongdoing and are less likely to side with him the more he insults them. “I don’t know if you heard,” he says, and his tone is carefully controlled and deliberately shaded with a touch of grief. “but my best friend was kidnapped. I had personal matters to deal with.” As he takes his seat at the head of the table, the few men standing sit as well.

“And we can understand that well enough, Mr. Queen,” Thompson responds, only ever so slightly patronizing. “But if you have any desire to remain as acting CEO, then Queen Consolidated must come first.”

And Oliver understands that perspective, better than these men ever could – the mission always comes first; only once it’s over and done with can you let personal feelings creep in; that was how he’d treated his rescue of Tommy, or tried to at least – but Queen Consolidated, however much he wishes to keep it in the family, has never been at the top of his list. Nothing has changed on that regard. (Still. Tommy has been safe well over a week now and Oliver cannot help but scold himself for not coming sooner.)

“Stellmoor has already acquired almost thirty percent of our shares,” Roger Springer chimes in. He, at least, looks vaguely apologetic.

“And I still have fifty-one percent,” Oliver reminds them, a precaution he’d taken back in June, when they’d still been negotiating how best to proceed. “I may not have been the best at math, but I believe that gives me controlling interest in the company – no matter what Stellmoor International does.”

A little bit of self-depreciation – a reminder that he _knows_ he’s not the best man for the job – coupled with a firm stance and the knowledge that he’s not backing down regardless. It’s been a tough week for Oliver, and he struggles to fit himself back into the role these men know him as.

“And your plan worked – the first time Mr. Queen. Carlin’s appointment as CEO assured our investors that we were taking things seriously – his death might just ruin us.”

“His death was completely accidental,” Oliver counters. “And should have no bearing on this company.”

Pritchard, three seats down the table from him and to his left, does not bother to hide the snort that escapes him. “Perhaps if you are still living in your fantasy world, _Mr. Queen_ ,” he says scornfully, “that would be the case. Unfortunately, the rest of us are still very much in the real world. Regardless of the accidental nature of his death, Queen Consolidated is once again without a CEO.”

“And Carlin was not here long enough to enact any real change,” another board member points out, if a bit more diplomatically than Pritchard’s fired-up statement.

Tense in his seat, Oliver is somewhat startled to find that his fists are clenched at his sides. His blood hums through his veins, his body eager and ready for a fight he cannot give it. Maybe he should have waited longer. Maybe he’s still not ready to face these men’s biting remarks and casual disdain.

But since when has it ever been about what Oliver is ready for?

He forcibly lets the tension flow from his body, relaxing his fingers at his side.

“Then he was not here long enough to enact any permanent changes that might hinder the next CEO,” he counters.

“And who do you propose to take the job?” Pritchard shoots back.

Oliver’s teeth clench almost on reflex and he bites down a scornful reply. “We interviewed four men for the position. Is it possible one of the others might still be interested?”

Thompson shakes his head thoughtfully. “Van Schindel has moved on, and anyway, we were least impressed with him. I am not sure about Ramirez or Palmer.”

“And if they have moved on as well?” someone else asks.

“I’m not the one who went to business school,” Oliver shoots back, too quickly, too sharply. He clenches and unclenches his fists again, reminds himself to take a deep breath. These men don’t know the monster, only the arrogant playboy, but he’s finding it hard to keep up that act. “I’m sure you already have several possible solutions in the works,” he adds, slower and more gently.

 Glances are exchanged around the table.

“And what about Stellmoor International?” Pritchard asks, moving on.

Oliver closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, taking the time to think about it, to push back the anger and give them men a response they’ll accept. “Give them a seat at the table,” he suggests as he reopens his eyes. “Honorary board member. No buyouts, but we can partner with them – we use their products, they use ours. I’ve done my research gentlemen, and if I have then I know that means you have. Things don’t generally go well for the companies Stellmoor buys out.”

There. That’s better, and more in line with the Oliver Queen they know. And from the looks exchanged around the table once more, Oliver’s not wrong and his compromise is something the board can live with.

He stands. He needs to get out of here before he blows up entirely, but he has enough patience left in him for a few parting remarks. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to work out the details,” he says, “but I expect a proposal in two weeks.” (There are still skeptical gazes, still board members reluctant to have him involved, but that doesn’t change the fact that Oliver has the controlling share of the company, that Oliver’s the acting CEO until another one can be appointed.)

“And what about the position of CEO?” Springer asks, more genuinely curious than frustratingly demanding, bringing the discussion back to their original topic.

“See what Palmer and Ramirez have been up to since their interviews. One of them might still be interested. If not, we’ll go from there.” He moves to leave but pauses in the open doorway. “Oh, and next time you decide to hold a board meeting about the fate of _my_ company, I expect a phone call.”

A few people stiffen, others look vaguely chagrined. Oliver knows he messed up, knows he should have come in as soon as he’d learned of Carlin’s death, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’d called a board meeting without him. He won’t let them do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continuing kind words, to those of you who have the time to leave comments - I really appreciate them. Chapter 22: Stretched Thin, should be up in a little over a week, on November 15th.


	22. Stretched Thin

_November 15, 2013, early morning:_

For a moment, Laurel doesn’t know what woke her. It’s a weekday, a Friday, her sleep-addled brain manages to realize after a moment, so she does have to go into work, but it’s still too early for her alarm to have gone off. The view outside the window is pitch black. She thinks about checking her phone for the time, or just ignoring whatever interruption woke her, rolling over, and going back to bed.

That’s when she hears the breathing and realizes why she isn’t sleeping anymore.

Tangled up in the blankets beside her, Tommy’s breathing is harsh and ragged. It sounds pained and Laurel awakens fully, realizing what had disturbed her sleep in the first place.

She shifts and gently places a hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t shake him – she’s learned in the past two weeks that he doesn’t react as well when woken that way – only waits to see how he takes it. After a moment, when he hasn’t woken or fought against her, she shifts her whole body and pulls him close. Tension seems to drain out of his limbs as his breathing evens out. After a moment, his body tucked against hers, he mumbles slightly.

“Go back to bed,” Laurel murmurs softly, pressing a kiss against the back of his head. His hair is soft and wild, sticking up in all directions, and the weight of him against her is comforting and pleasant.

Tommy shifts into a better position, getting comfortable as he settles against her. “Did I wake you?” he murmurs in return, still half-asleep.

Laurel shushes him softly. “Sleep,” she repeats, gentle and pleading.

He settles down and drifts off again in minutes, never fully having woken up. Not so bad of a nightmare then, this time at least. She gets comfortable herself, pressing her foot against his leg beneath the covers, reveling in his presence, in the solidness of her body against hers. She could never be even so much as irritated at him for waking her because of his nightmares, not when the alternative is not having him at all. Besides, she knows what it’s like to suffer after the fact, to relive moments of terror and fear and pain over and over in your sleep.

(She thinks Oliver does too, though he’s never said as much, but that’s another topic entirely. What a trio they make.)

It takes her a little longer than her boyfriend, but within a few more minutes she too drifts off, disappearing into slumber once more.

* * *

Truthfully, Sin no longer knows what to make of Thea Queen. The woman is undoubtedly rich and spoiled. She feels entitled to things she has no right to and never believes that she could be wrong about something. But she’s also stubborn and brave, willing to face her fears, willing to learn new things, and, surprisingly, willing to get her hands dirty.

A week after she and Roy and Sin were attacked in the back alleys of the Glades, Thea sits the two of them down and says something that Sin would never have expected to hear from her, not in a million years.

“I want to help too.”

Sin blinks and exchanges glances with Roy. Abercrombie is just as confused as she is.

“With what, Princess?” she asks, words harsh and biting. (But the nickname is softer, fonder. She can’t forget Thea swinging that pipe with wild abandon, refusing to leave Roy despite the danger to herself and forgetting that danger to herself to take aim at the man who’d been coming for Sin. She can’t forget the night after that, when Thea had told her to stay. It was the first time she’d felt like she’d really _belonged_ somewhere in a long time.)

“With the vigilante. The Green Arrow,” Thea says resolutely. Despite the short time in which she’s come to know her, Sin already recognizes that tone. Thea has made up her mind. There will be no changing it.

Roy frowns. “Thea…”

“I know, I know,” Thea cuts off. “I keep telling you how dangerous it is, and I’m not _wrong_ , but…” she shakes her head. “What if he hadn’t been there for us?”

Sin shudders at the thought of it. Would she have turned tail and run, leaving Roy and Thea to their fates? She likes to think not, but the thought had crossed her mind more than once during the fight.

Meanwhile, Roy’s eyes are wary, his body language defensive. He doesn’t like to think about what might have happened any more than Sin does, she surmises. But he also doesn’t like the idea of Thea being in danger in the future.

Thea keeps talking before either of them can think of an argument to voice against her. “I still don’t want you on the streets fighting,” she directs quickly at Roy, “but there has to be _something_ we can do.”

Roy shakes his head. “You heard him. He doesn’t want my help.”

“Except he works with Laurel. He takes your advice. He asked for your help when Tommy got kidnapped,” Thea is quick to counter.

Sin thinks it’s a bit… strange, how heavily the Green Arrow is involved in the people in Roy’s and Thea’s lives, but she’s pretty sure she’s the only one who does, so she doesn’t say anything. Besides, Queen and Merlyn (their parents, anyway) were the architects of the miniquake. Maybe it only makes sense for him to keep an eye on them. (And Roy only got involved after he’d been kidnapped, and Laurel is the daughter of the man in charge of the vigilante task force and… Well, it’s a tangled web of connections that could mean nothing or everything. Sin’s not sure which yet.)

“We’re not lawyers,” Roy counters right back. “And I want to do more than just be his ears in the streets.”

“So do I.”

Sin scoffs. “You two idiots do realize there are other ways to help this city than by helping the Green Arrow, right?” She won’t deny that the man’s a hero, that there’s a very high possibility he’s saved her life at some point (not including the incident from a week ago), however indirectly, but however much he helps, punching criminals isn’t always enough.

Thea stills, not defensively, but as though a sudden idea has occurred to her, as though she’s thinking hard. “He started out by targeting _us_ ,” she half-whispers, seemingly speaking mostly to herself.

Sin blinks and frowns. She’s not going to speak for Thea or Roy but _she’s_ certainly never been targeted by Star City’s hooded archer. “Excuse me?”

Shaking her head, Thea blinks her way back to reality. “No, no, I meant, people like the Queens. I actually, uh…” she shakes her head again, looking somewhat stricken. “I actually joked with my mom once. Asked her if she was worried about him coming for our fortune next.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Roy responds comfortingly, stepping forward and putting his arm around Thea’s shoulder.

Thea leans into him even as she shakes her head again. “I know,” she says somewhat sadly, then rallies her emotions again. “But that’s not my point. John O’Toole. Blake Thompson.”

“Am I supposed to know who they are?” Sin interrupts.

But Roy’s frowning thoughtfully too. “They were on the news lately. I think.”

“Thompson walked into a police station yesterday and confessed that his shipping company has been smuggling drugs into the city,” Thea tells them. “He owns Unicore Shipping.” One of the largest shipping companies, with almost complete control over the city’s southern commercial docks. “And O’Toole was in the news before…” Thea pauses, wets her lips and swallows, looking anxious. “Before Tommy got kidnapped,” she manages to get out. “The Green Arrow stole ten million dollars from him.”

Sin straightens. She doesn’t pay much attention to the news but… “The community center on Harrison got a ten-million-dollar anonymous donation a few days before Halloween.” It’s a good community center, staffed by good people. She’d slept there a few times when she’d been younger and fresh on the streets.

“That’s my point. And your point too I guess. The Green Arrow doesn’t just stop muggers and car-jackers. That’s never been all he’s done. He takes down the corrupt, the people who are –”

“Poisoning his city,” Roy interrupts solemnly. There’s determination on his face and just like that Sin knows he’s hooked.

Thea knows it too. The two of them turn to face her.

Sin shakes her head. What the hell, right? What does she have to lose? For a long time, she’d been content to go about her life, barely scraping by, focusing on herself. Then Sara’d saved her. Then she’d met Roy, started learning more about the Green Arrow. Then she’d actually and honestly (and she still can’t really believe it) become friends with Thea _Queen_.

It turns out, she wants to help the people of the Glades too. And she’s certainly not about to let Queen be the only one helping.

“What did you have in mind?”

* * *

* * *

_November 16, 2013, afternoon:_

Walking around any area of the Glades with your charge, even with other company present, means that John has to keep his head on a swivel. A lot of buildings in the area are abandoned, others are clearly in use but also very clearly need better upkeep. It’s the middle of the day, and the sun is shining, but that doesn’t mean danger isn’t lurking around the corners just out of sight. (An attack isn’t as likely as it would be during the night, but that doesn’t mean it’s not possible. Especially regarding the son of the architect of what people are now calling the miniquake.)

The motions are routine though, familiar. Stay alert, eyes and ears watching, stay with the principal, and have an escape route handy. Thanks to his time with Oliver on top of his own training, John’s got three escape routes already planned.

But it’s not Oliver he’s guarding anymore, and that makes the situation unusual.

John tries not to let it go to his head – he gets why Oliver asked him to guard Tommy, knows that, of all the people in the city, Oliver probably needs a guard least of them. And if he and Oliver were still friendly with each other it probably wouldn’t bother him nearly so much. But he’s still uncomfortable with the decisions Oliver has been making and Oliver knows it.

Rather than getting better, tensions in the foundry are only getting worse again. Oliver’s been pushing himself even harder after Tommy’s kidnapping, barely sleeping, staying out from dusk to dawn each night. Last time Digg had shown up at the foundry he’d seen Oliver already planted in front of the computers sifting through audio tapes of the Listers he’d bugged – the exact same spot he’d been in when John had left that morning. And when he’d asked if Oliver had been there all day the man had evaded his questions, quickly changed, and hit the streets.

He won’t talk to them, won’t let them help. He still accepts all the information they give him but rarely contributes to any conversations. If he trains, he does so when Diggle isn’t there.

John doesn’t know how to react. Leaving had been what created the problem in the first place and he doesn’t want to leave again. But staying doesn’t seem to be helping either. And Oliver keeps avoiding all of his attempts to start up any conversation.

So as he walks through the abandoned building with Tommy Merlyn, Marta Montgomery, and the real estate dealer showing them the place, these thoughts and more are on his mind. They shouldn’t be. John’s got a principal to protect and a job to do.

And he likes Tommy, genuinely feels comfortable with the man. At least, he used to. Now, Tommy seems to be aware of the tension between him and Oliver and Felicity, and doesn’t know how to handle it either. Or at least, he hadn’t seemed to know how to handle it earlier.

As they finish up the showing and go their separate ways – walking Mrs. Montgomery to her car first, then moving toward their own, Tommy pauses as John opens the door for him. They haven’t spoken about the Green Arrow once since Digg had started guarding him, but it looks like that’s about to change. Tommy’s finally worked up the courage to talk about it. (John’s not sure he has, not sure he’s ready to discuss their problems with someone else, but like all challenges he comes across he faces it head on.)

“Yes, sir?” he asks expectantly, falling back on his professional mask. He’s slipped out of it, while guarding Oliver, and it’s harder than he thought it would be to return to it. (It’s just another reminder of how much Digg enjoys helping the Green Arrow, working with a man he hopes still considers them to be friends. He doesn’t want to return to the life he had before.)

Tommy winces slightly. “You don’t have to call me sir,” he says. “I just… He’s still keeping secrets from me, isn’t he?” Tommy asks, though of course he already knows the answer.

John looks away. Sara’s life, most of all, weighs heavily on him, but he can’t forget the way Oliver’s been pushing himself, the way he’s been hiding his injuries.

Tommy’s shoulders settle down sadly. “I know… I mean, I… I don’t want him to tell me everything. I don’t need any more secrets to keep, but… is he alright?”

“You would know better than me,” John tells him honestly. There’s no bitterness in his tone, only regret.

Tommy frowns. “But I thought…?”

“We had an argument, a few months ago, and Oliver’s slow to trust.” The words come out harsher than John had planned for. He’s trying not to blame Oliver, really _trying_ , but it’s hard when every attempt he makes at reconciliation only gets pushed away again. The reason he and Felicity left in the first place, Oliver’s tendency to make decisions without them, hasn’t really changed at all, and John still gets frustrated when he sees it. The only difference now is that he has a better control of his own temper, a deeper understanding of where Oliver’s coming from. (And a clearer head to remind him that Oliver’s suffered, far more than he thinks he’ll ever really know.)

“I know,” Tommy says. “After… after everything – whatever he’s been through, all that he can do now…” He shakes his head. “I only just realized how much we scare him.”

John starts at that, frowning himself. Tommy’s words are sincere and a bit sorrowful, tinged with regret himself. “What do you mean?” he finds himself asking. But the memory of the nights Oliver has spent on Tommy’s fire escape lately fill his mind, coupled with the tinge of desperation when Oliver had asked him to guard Tommy for him.

Tommy throws him a look that says ‘how have you not noticed?’ “I’ve been watching him, this past week,” Tommy answers. “When I get the chance to see him, at least. And we, uh, we had a conversation. It took me a while to put it all together but…” he trails off, looking expectantly at John, searching for the words and hoping the bodyguard will have them.

John only shakes his head. He’s got… an inkling, the merest idea of what Tommy is talking about starting to make itself known in his brain, but he wants to hear how the other man phrases it first, before he commits to the thought.

“He’s terrified that I’m going to hate him,” Tommy finishes. His gaze goes different. “I didn’t even realize. I mean, when I… when I first, you know, found out, he seemed like he didn’t care. I…” he swallows, refocusing on John and looking regretful. “I said some things I shouldn’t have. And he just stood there and took it. Like it was nothing. Like he didn’t care.”

John’s thoughts settle, solidifying. He’d always known what Tommy is saying, he realizes, but it had taken him until now, until hearing the other man’s words, to put the pieces together.

“But he does,” he responds solemnly. He knows better than most that you can’t trust the masks Oliver portrays to the world, but he’d forgotten that Oliver can use those masks around him and Felicity too. And God does he know how much Oliver _cares_ , the way he beats himself up after every failure, no matter how small. The way he throws himself into defending his city – and the people he cares about.

“Yeah,” Tommy says quietly, unaware of how thoroughly he’s shattered John’s world.

John’s worked with veterans, is one himself, has seen how trauma can shatter a man. He knows the signs and symptoms of PTSD. Sometimes he thinks Oliver’s made it out better than he should have, given what little he knows about what the man has gone through. But then he sees the cracks in Oliver’s façade and realizes the man hasn’t escaped his island, won’t let himself off it, not yet. He’d forgotten that too. (PTSD is _post_ -traumatic stress, and, in Oliver’s mind at least, he’s still living his trauma, every day. He hasn’t moved past it.)

Oliver’s not pushing them away. Or, rather, he is, but he’s doing it because he’s not willing to wait for the moment when they leave themselves. _“He’s terrified that I’m going to hate him,”_ Tommy had said. John can see it now, now that the words have been said. He wonders how he couldn’t see it before.

Back when Oliver had first told him about being the Arrow, he’d been patient with John. He’d poked and prodded at him from a distance because he’d already known what John hadn’t – how much he wanted to help the people of Star City, how much he was ready to jump into action again saving lives. They’d been strangers back then, and Oliver had taken his disdain calmly because he’d expected it and trusted that John wouldn’t spill his secret. (Not the sort of trust that came from closeness but the kind of trust that came from cold hard facts, from knowing about John’s life and understanding his personality.)

And then they’d become friends and when John had walked away that time, Oliver hadn’t come after him.

It’s different with friends, John realizes. At least it is for Oliver. As a stranger, John hadn’t really known what he’d been getting into and Oliver’d known that he could be persuaded. As a friend… As a friend, Oliver had been certain that John had already known the facts and made his choice anyway. If John and Felicity have already made that choice once before, and with how many secrets still undoubtedly lie in Oliver’s past, who’s to say they won’t make it again?

Tommy’s words have granted John a sudden and unshakeable understanding of the situation, and the tension between them all. It’s not just a lack of trust, not entirely, at least, not the way he and Felicity have been looking at it. Oliver’s just bracing himself for them to leave again.

John makes a promise to himself then and there that he’ll never repeat his mistake of leaving Oliver without talking things through first. No, he’ll never leave Oliver period. The man’s his brother now. If he does end up going down a dark path (and there’s only a few things that could trigger that in him, John figures), then it’s his responsibility to help Oliver come back from that.

Now he just has to figure out how to show to Oliver that he’s not going anywhere.

* * *

* * *

_November 17, 2013, morning:_

Another sleepless night passes agonizingly slowly, followed up by another lie to Laurel about his nightmares. It’s not so much that he wants to shield her from the content of the nightmares themselves, it’s that one particular person plays a fairly frequent role. Well, multiple people do, really.

There’s him, of course, always the central figure, always in trouble. But his tormentor has varied slightly. Most of the time, it’s Harold Banko, the leader of the men who’d kidnapped and tortured him. But three times already in the two weeks he’s been free his father has taken the man’s place in his dreams, asking the same questions Banko had: how much does he know about the Undertaking, about Malcolm’s plans, about the List?

That’s not what he’s trying to hide from Laurel. He knows he still has issues regarding what his father had done, knows he’s still torn about the man’s death, however much of a monster he might have been. (He’d never gotten the chance to ask the man _why_ , to question him about his decision. Moira Queen had backed out, in the end. Could Tommy had gotten his father to do the same? He’s almost certain the answer is no, but the truth is he’ll never really know.)

It’s the third frequent participant he’s lying to Laurel about, because she thinks he’s two different people. Right now, Laurel’s a bit irritated with Oliver. More than a bit, actually. He hadn’t been around much when Tommy had been kidnapped, hadn’t provided the kind of support Thea (and Jo) had, hadn’t really seemed to have been that concerned. And he hadn’t shown up until a week after he’d been rescued, hadn’t visited him or even called.

Tommy knows why, and understands Oliver’s actions a bit better now, but he can’t share that information with Laurel. He can’t tell her that Oliver _was_ there that night, that he’d devoted all of his considerable resources and skills into finding him, and that Oliver hadn’t visited because he’d been afraid that his presence would remind Tommy of the violence he’d seen that night. (That he’d been afraid Tommy wouldn’t _want_ to see him, and Tommy’s texting Oliver every day now, nonsense topics of conversation, just to ensure that Oliver knows he _does_ want him in his life.)

He can’t tell her that sometimes his nightmares end with the Green Arrow rescuing him, and sometimes with Oliver rescuing him, because they’re one and the same, even if Oliver is hoodless sometimes in his dreams. And he certainly can’t tell her that sometimes his nightmares are reversed, and it’s Oliver being tortured and questioned – by Banko, or even Malcolm – and all that the dream version of Tommy can do is stand there and watch, helpless and unable to intervene.

Even in his nightmares, Oliver rescues him from his troubles, but Tommy can’t do the same for him in return. Because he can’t get any further involved in the Green Arrow while still lying to Laurel but he knows that his reluctance to stay close has been tearing Oliver apart.

It had taken him months – far too long – but he’s finally realized that Oliver isn’t as emotionless as he pretends to be.

Laurel’s in the kitchen now, cooking breakfast and trying not to worry too much about him, if he knows her (and he does). There’s nothing Tommy can say to console her. He can’t explain that it was Oliver getting pummeled for information last night in his dreams. He can’t explain that there’s no reason to be mad at Oliver for not being around because the man had been busy finding Tommy already, under the Green Arrow’s hood.

There’s nothing he can do, nothing he can say, and every action he makes will only push one of his two best friends further from him. Lying to Laurel only widens the distance between them as she senses his reluctance to talk. Fully embracing who Oliver has become will only mean he has to lie even more to Laurel. Telling Laurel the truth would only serve to push Oliver away completely (and might push Laurel away from Oliver too, though Tommy doesn’t really believe that).

There are no good options.

Tommy doesn’t know what to do.

He just knows he’s not leaving either of them out of his life.

* * *

Laurel and Jo are in the midst of discussing their current case against Dr. Anderson, something they’d more or less put on hold the last couple of weeks, when Tommy pads softly into the kitchen, probably in search of something to eat.

“Sorry,” Laurel says quickly, hoping they hadn’t woken him. “We were trying not to be loud.” Tommy hadn’t gotten much sleep that night and had been napping when Jo had shown up. They’d kept their voices down in the beginning as they worked on their very slim casefile on Dr. Mark Anderson, but they’d lost track of time and their surroundings in their frustration.

Tommy smiles softly. “No worries,” he says. “I was already awake. Morning, Jo.”

“Hot stuff,” Jo returns with a friendly grin, eyes soft with concern.

Laurel’s heart aches at her boyfriend’s words – mostly at the fact that she doesn’t know whether or not they’re _true_. Tommy’s been keeping things from her and she knows it. She’s mostly convinced herself that he just doesn’t want her to know how bad things are, but _she’d_ shared with him the memories of her own kidnapping so that fear doesn’t entirely make sense. She tries to tell herself he’s just not ready to talk about it but she’s not sure that works either. Some mornings he’ll tell her every detail he remembers from his dreams. Others he says not a single word.

“Jo and I are just working on the Anderson case,” she tells him.

Jo’s already half-way perched on the edge of her chair. “I can leave –” she starts to offer.

Tommy waves her down without hesitation, if tiredly. “No, no, don’t leave on my account,” he says. There are bags under his eyes and a clear weariness in his tone. But he eyes the papers spread out over the table with interest. “We never really did get much time to talk about your meeting with him. How’d it go?” he asks.

She hesitates but getting back to work has always helped her own grief and suffering in the past. Maybe it’ll help Tommy too.

“Eh,” Jo says into the silence. “He didn’t really give anything away, but the fact that he agreed to meet with us at all means that he has something to worry about.”

“And we made it clear to him that we’re not backing down.”

Tommy clears himself a seat at the table. “Tell me everything.”

* * *

* * *

_November 20, 2013, night:_

The number of false lists released online is nearing a hundred and Felicity’s starting to struggle to keep up with the influx. She doesn’t know why she needs to – none of them are real, and the chances that the next one she comes across is the real deal is increasingly slim with each fake one she finds (and even if it _is_ real, who’s going to believe it over the hundred other versions out there?) – but Oliver insists, and she’s not yet ready to argue with him.

Of course, the problem with that is, that was the whole reason she and Digg had taken a break in the first place, because the three of them hadn’t been able to sit down and have proper discussions. In that regard, Felicity feels very much like she should just approach Oliver and say, _‘hey, you know what, I don’t think we need to be recording every single list on the internet’_. They _need_ to have these discussions; she _wants_ to have these discussions. _That had been the whole point of leaving_.

And yet…

And yet she doesn’t bring up the idea of slowing down on their investigation. She’s not sure if it’s because she’s afraid of Oliver’s anger (of course it’s not that – since when has she ever backed down from telling him off?) or if it’s because she fears that another argument – any argument, no matter how small – might just lead to her feeling like she has to walk away again (might lead to her _actually_ walking away again, despite how awful she feels about last time she’d done it, because she’s still _very_ frustrated with Oliver) or if it’s because Oliver has very valid reasons as to why they need to keep monitoring the influx of false lists and she doesn’t think she’d win that argument even if she started it.

It’s probably a bit of the last two. Probably a bit of the fact that Digg had recently pointed out that Oliver _expects_ them to leave again. Probably a bit of the fact that Felicity knows it’s the right thing to do.

But that doesn’t make it any less exhausting. The internet, to put it frankly, is huge. Felicity’s good, but even she can’t search the entire internet. Of course, if the false lists aren’t easily accessible, they aren’t doing anyone any good, so at least she can rely on social media for the most part to link to them. She’s still spending half her time these days dealing with the furor that _still_ hasn’t died down since the media announced the List’s existence back in August.

With the way Oliver had been turning in a Lister every other week the past few months – three in the past two weeks alone, since Tommy’s kidnapping – Felicity’s not sure it’ll ever die down, not with the way he keeps drawing attention back to it with every high profile arrest that results from the Arrows actions (and even with those incidents that don’t end in arrests, just thefts of Listers’ money, returned to the people of Star City).

Putting Urbina’s name on the first fake list _had_ slowed things down for a bit – it’d been two weeks before another one had popped up – but it hadn’t stopped the people. Felicity had kept adding names to posts as Oliver had asked her to, until finally people either started adding their own names to their lists pre-emptively or were good enough that she couldn’t hack them in one night. The easy ones she still exposes. The more difficult ones, the people who actually seem to know what they’re doing in the computer science world…

Well, Felicity’s good, better than the kind of people who generate lists of rich people they think are criminals and post them willy-nilly on the internet, but she’s also outnumbered, and she’s still working on targeting the _actual_ members of the List, on top of the dozen other things on the Arrow’s plate. She just doesn’t have the time to expose all of them.

Urbina’s still active, even – the Twitter handle @takebackStarCity has blown up in popularity once he decided to own up to the fact that, yeah, he’d completely made up his list. Felicity’s monitoring him too. He won’t get far in the criminal world with his name out in the open – the police have started a file on him as well – but if he keeps improving his skills without doing something illegal enough to put him in jail, then one day he’ll learn how to hide again.

But that day is pretty far in the future. Right now, the influx of false lists means there haven’t been any riots targeting specific people – it’s actually drawn attention away from the real List, led to a few boycotts and bad press for some people who _are_ on the List, whether or not anyone knows it. But the tension is still simmering in Star City, not helped by the rumors flying around that Tommy Merlyn was kidnapped to find out what he knows about the List.

Of course, those rumors are true, but…

It’s anyone’s guess whether or not Star City’s disgruntled people will boil over, or if the flame driving them into action will be extinguished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too exciting of a chapter this time, but we'll get back to the action next week. Chapter 23: The Breaking Point, should be posted Nov. 22nd.


	23. The Breaking Point

_November 22, 2013, night:_

Friday night. The start of the weekend, for most people. Even for the idle rich, without nine-to-fives to speak of, Friday night is a night for partying. Oliver hasn’t been in a partying mood lately (since the _Gambit_ had sunk, probably, but that doesn’t bear thinking about), but he still has a reputation to maintain. One he hasn’t done much to support in the past few months (since he’d learned Sara was alive, really).

Lately, though, he’s been reminding himself (and Star City) of his multiple sides. Felicity and Diggle have doubled down in the foundry, working overtime since Tommy’s kidnapping to keep the streets safe. He’s made a few more appearances at Queen Consolidated, trying to solve the problem Carlin’s accidental death had created. But Oliver Queen hasn’t been seen partying since his fundraiser back in early October and the last time a tabloid had gotten the scoop on Oliver Queen entering a club other than Verdant had been mid-October. Over a month ago, now.

And it’s not as if Oliver Queen doesn’t get plenty of invitations. He’s not the only one who throws charity fundraisers and there are balls and galas and museum wing openings and concerts he’s ignored lately, on top of the typical raves thrown by people his age or younger. He can’t ignore all the invitations forever and it’s about time that a photo of him slightly drunk at a loud party made the circuits on the internet again. He’s got a reputation to maintain.

So here Oliver is, at Rebecca Syster’s birthday party, being hosted at the night club Fireworks in the hottest district of downtown Star City. Syster is his and Tommy’s age and had attended the same high school as them; they’d traveled in the same social circles, but she’d been fairly committed to her football star boyfriend at the time. He’s (almost) certain that neither he nor Tommy ever got involved with her. So she’s someone who’ll remember him but hopefully won’t have any negative associations with his memory.

He’d gotten in easily enough, found old acquaintances he hadn’t run into for six years within minutes, and he’s suffering through the loud music and the tumultuous crowd as he lets Susan Miller – a girl he’d taken to one homecoming dance over a decade ago – practically sit on his lap in the booth he’s sharing with four other people. At this point he’s only had one real shot but he’s pretending like he’s had four already. There are several pictures of him on social media already, he’s sure, but when their drinks at the table run out he volunteers to get up and grab some more.

There’s more of a chance someone who hasn’t seen him at the party already will catch a glimpse and snap a pic that way and that’s the entire point of this outing. To show Star City that Oliver Queen still parties, on occasion.

The music stifles his hearing and the crowd stifles his ability to see threats but Oliver manages, as he always does. Most of the bodies around him are drunk and having fun, dancing or gossiping with friends. He spends a few hours with Miller’s group, deflecting questions about the island and Tommy while readily answering questions about Verdant and Queen Consolidated. Then he does a few circuits, connects with Syster for a while – who, despite the lavish and loud party, seems to have mellowed slightly from the girl she’d been in high school – and then joins a group of guys who he’d hung with after high school when he was flitting from college to college.

It’s honestly not terribly unenjoyable. Oliver finds that he likes hearing what that old friend or this former associate is up to. Since coming home he’s connected with his family, with Tommy and Laurel, but not with the more casual friends he’d once had.

Thomas and Matthew Nguyen, twins as thick as thieves, have managed to open that restaurant they’d always dreamed of having. Oliver promises them to give it a try and keep in touch and they swap phone numbers. Back in high school they’d been the kind of friends that shared classes and hung out every day in the hallways – the two of them had skipped school with him and Tommy many times – but lost contact as soon as they’d graduated.

Tracy Haas, who’d been Laurel’s best friend in middle school and the first few years of high school, isn’t at the party, but Oliver runs into Nicole Smith, who fills him in on how she’s doing.

With all the stress in his life lately, all the turmoil and pain and uncertainty, it’s pleasant to hear about people simply _living_. Admittedly there is a level of discomfort to some of his interactions – this is a party full of young adults who grew up rich. Several of their parents are on the list and most of them are truly ignorant about their privilege, unaware of all that’s happening in the Glades and elsewhere and also utterly unconcerned. (It _grates_ on him, how little these people seem to care about their city. But now isn’t the time to press that.)

Still. Oliver doesn’t mind the idea that his former classmates are untouched by the years of suffering he’s endured. That they’re still young and happy and alive. It’s the kind of life he wants for Thea, for Tommy and Laurel. Part of him wishes they would open their eyes to the corruption around them and do something but another part of him is glad they still have their innocence. Ignorance can be malicious but for the moment it’s worth protecting. Tonight, he doesn’t see a multitude of ignorant young adults – he sees Tommy as he once was, Tommy before his kidnapping. He wants to see Tommy like this again (he hadn’t even considered asking Tommy to come with him tonight; his friend isn’t ready). With that thought in mind, how can he really berate these people for enjoying themselves?

The evening plays havoc on his senses and reminds him of the island (especially given all the questions people are still asking him, considering most of these people have not seen him since before he got on the _Gambit_ ) but Oliver leaves with several new phone numbers in the device in his pocket and several promises to keep in touch. (And with several photos of him on social media, upholding his reputation.)

Knowing that he’d be drinking, and that he’d be leaving under the pretense that he was far drunker than he actually was, Oliver hadn’t driven himself. And with Diggle guarding Tommy, he doesn’t have a driver at the moment. Instead he’d taken a cab and he’ll have to take another one to get to the foundry.

Just… not quite yet. Relishing the peace of the autumn air in the middle of the night, Oliver takes side streets and back allies as he takes some minutes to himself. After such cramped conditions he’s looking forward to the physicality of patrolling the Glades and he’s not quite ready to fold himself into the back of stranger’s cab. Close to downtown as he is, the streets are fairly well lit, quiet and clean.

There aren’t likely to be any threats. But Oliver can’t quite turn his vigilance off, especially not in an unknown environment, so he notices the moment footsteps start to dog his own. Oliver keeps his pace steady and listens for a moment.

Two sets of footsteps. Just as steady and even as his own. Solid, suggesting tennis shoes or boots and, statistically speaking, male wearers, given the heavy tread. He walks for another block, and they don’t waver. The odds that someone – two someones – would catch up to him as he strolled along the sidewalk, then slow down and keep pace without passing him or falling behind – are very slim.

Muggers, perhaps, he considers. Possibly paparazzi. Possibly just random strangers who’ve recognized Oliver Queen. But paparazzi would be less quiet and random fans probably wouldn’t hold themselves back for so long.

Oliver could be wrong, but he doesn’t try to stop his brain from considering the two approaching men a threat. He turns a corner and continues his casual walk down the nearest alley though, just in case. Because he’s _home_ , he’s in Star City, and not everyone is out to get him anymore. (At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself.) If they are just random civilians, they probably won’t follow him.

The footsteps don’t falter.

Oliver relaxes any tension in his muscles in case they jump him from behind and starts evaluating escape routes in front of him: the dumpster and fire escape to his left; the door, possibly locked, into the building to his right; the other end of the alley, and the street in front of him. He doesn’t want to fight because that would mean revealing what he’s capable of. He’ll simply toss them his wallet, maybe even his phone, and run. It’s nothing he can’t get back.

( _You wanted a run over the rooftops_ , he thinks to himself sardonically. This was not quite what he’d been picturing.)

Sticking a hand into his pocket he palms the Arrow’s phone, working quickly to slip out the sim card. It’s not like anyone else can access it but he’s not taking any chances. Hopefully, if they get close enough to notice, they’ll pass off his having two phones as a rich person’s odd habits. One for business, one for pleasure. (It’s even technically true.)

With the sim card free, Oliver pulls his hand out of his pocket and subtly tucks it into the band of his watch, tight against his skin. His own steps never falter at the movement and he makes it look like he’s just adjusting his sleeve.

Halfway down the alley though, things change again. A man steps out from the shadows, dead ahead, with a gun in his hand. He raises it to aim at Oliver’s torso.

So much for running. Oliver tenses, ready to dodge the first bullet and fight. He doesn’t want to reveal what he’s capable of, but he’s not getting shot. Not by some thugs crazy enough to mug him in downtown Star City. He eyes the fire escape again.

“Don’t even think about trying anything,” the man sneers, “we’ve already got your sister.”

Oliver’s mind freezes for the briefest of moments before wiping itself clean. The slate in his head has been erased by five simple words, old calculations forgotten as new ones start to make themselves known.

His sight sharpens on the gun pointed at his chest, on the confident sneer on the man’s face. Suddenly he can hear the beating of his own heart, the small movements of cloth against cloth from the two men behind him as they shift slightly where they stand. Suddenly he can smell the gunpowder of the pistol and the garbage from the dumpster now slightly behind him.

Cool, sharp wind blows across every inch of his exposed flesh but Oliver doesn’t let himself feel the cold. His mouth dries up, the lingering taste of the one shot he’d done still settled on the back of his tongue.

With five simple words, Oliver’s adrenaline had spiked and his vision of the alley had become crystal clear, observed with all his senses working in unison. His mind, meanwhile, is thinking furiously. This is no longer a scenario of taking a small beating to preserve his identity.

There are two options that immediately present themselves to his brain, complete with the likely outcomes and risk factors involved.

One: Oliver fights back. When he wins, if they’re telling the truth, he gets the men to tell him where Thea is. If the men didn’t have guns he wouldn’t have worried about a three on one fight but they do, which increases the risk. And though torture can be effective, it doesn’t always work. Especially if these men don’t know where Thea is. (They’re clearly not working alone, if they already have Thea somewhere else, and partners don’t always share information. Oliver wouldn’t, if he was running a kidnapping.)

Two: Oliver surrenders. This option eliminates any immediate risk to his person but increases his future risk. Once they have him restrained and moved to an environment they’re familiar with he’ll be at a disadvantage bigger than the one in front of him now. But if they’re telling the truth, this may be his quickest way to figure out where Thea is.

(In the back of his mind, as his brain is whirring through these plans, Oliver can’t help but make the connection between these men and Tommy’s kidnapping. He can’t make assumptions, can’t assume that these men will question him before even considering killing him, but it seems likely. The man in front of him wears shabby and worn clothes and has the same subtle accent as those who grew up in the Glades. The same anger too.

And he remembers how long it had taken him to find Tommy. Too long. If he has the chance to get to Thea now…)

There are a hundred factors involved in his decision making but ultimately only those two options. Either Oliver fights or he doesn’t and that decision depends on those hundred things: how likely it is that the men really have Thea, how skilled they might be in a fight, how quickly he could find cover to prevent himself from being shot, how likely the men are to avoid lethal force…

His mind could go on and on but there’s really only one question that Oliver needs to know the answer to: which option is safer for Thea?

If they’re lying then it doesn’t matter, and he can take the time to evaluate his own safety and risk first (and the risk of revealing what he’s capable of). But if they’re telling the truth, option two is safer for Thea. And Oliver can’t take the risk that they’re lying. Not with the confident sneer on the man’s face and the unwavering certainty in which his words had been spoken.

In the span of barely more than a few seconds Oliver’s awareness of his surroundings had increased tenfold, his brain had processed the situation, and his heart had settled on a solution. (It isn’t all heart though, it is logic too, cold and hard, even if it is a logic contrary to ARGUS’s training that puts Thea before him.)

Oliver relaxes his muscles, ignores the phone now vibrating in his pocket (Oliver Queen’s phone, and that sends a jolt of fear through his gut, that he might be missing the call about the fact that Thea has been taken), and raises his hands. He considers for a half-second acting like the ignorant and clueless drunk playboy they think he is but he dismisses it. They have his sister. (Supposedly.) Even the irresponsible Oliver Queen wouldn’t be so foolish as to think this a mugging. Especially with the context of his own best friend’s recent kidnapping.

“I’ll pay whatever you want,” he says, pitching his voice slightly higher, as though he’s panicking. His eyes scan the man in front of him and the gun he’s holding. Tight stance and a firm grip. Like Tommy’s kidnappers, he knows how to use the weapon in his hand, though probably not well enough to be considered an expert.

The man ignores his plea, nodding to the men behind Oliver. Knowing what’s about to happen Oliver steels himself, forcing his body not to react to the contact he knows is coming. Sure enough, only seconds later one of the men is forcing his hands roughly behind his back, lashing them together with zip ties. Oliver pulls out every trick he knows, tensing his muscles to give himself some space later, but he doesn’t intend on escaping just yet.

Not until he sees Thea.

Rigid plastic bites into his wrists as rough hands grab at his elbows and Oliver holds himself loose by sheer force of will. He cannot even give them a hint of his strength, not the barest measure of what he’s capable of.

Clearly they do not think much of him as it is. As Oliver is shoved forward the man in the lead holsters his weapon, turning his back on Oliver. _Amateurs_ , he thinks, grimly pleased at the assessment. Like the men who’d taken Tommy, they’re not entirely unfamiliar with this sort of crime or the weapons they carry but they’re also not professionals. (It’s just another hint at the type of kidnapping this is, another clue about the situation he’s been pushed into that Oliver files away for processing. Any morsel of information, however small or uncertain, is valuable in a situation like this one.)

Oliver hunches his shoulders and shuffles his feet and lets himself wince as they prod him along to the car at the end of the alley. Once there he plants his feet and struggles as they try to force him into the trunk. He offers them money again, taps into the panic he feels for his sister to make it sound genuine. But he’s not really fighting them. He’s just playing along.

(If they have Thea… It’s not fear for himself that’s bringing Oliver’s emotions to the forefront, distracting him from evaluating his situation.)

Taping his mouth shut and pulling both of his phones and his wallet out of his pockets they get him into the trunk before too long. Oliver shifts his shoulders so as to not lose too much circulation, given the awkward position he’s folded into.

Remembering Tommy’s experience, finding it more and more likely that his own will be similar, Oliver settles in for a long ride and doesn’t bother to count the twists and turns as the car under him starts to move. Instead he tries to calm his breathing and slow his beating heart. He can’t be riding high on adrenaline the whole time if it’ll be hours before he gets out of the trunk. He needs to conserve his energy and be ready for what comes next.

So he does. 

(More truthfully speaking, Oliver _tries_ not to count the twists and turns, tries not to map the route the car is taking, tries to get himself to relax, but even he can’t convince himself just yet that this kidnapping will be the same as Tommy’s had been, that these men had known Tommy’s kidnappers. (That maybe, just maybe, they’d been wrong, and that Tommy’s kidnappers had been hired by someone, and so had these men). It takes him fifteen minutes of mapping their route (they’ve gone west, into the Glades) before he convinces himself to relax and forget about it.)

* * *

Well into fall as they are now, the sun starts to set at five pm. By six it’s pitch-black out and all of the city’s streetlamps are on. The ones that work, anyway.

Fall means longer nights. It means Oliver can spend more time on the streets.

It means, as the hour hits three and Oliver still hasn’t shown up in the foundry, that Felicity has sent Digg worried glances five times in the last fifteen minutes. He’s hard at work sorting through audio files they’ve collected from eavesdropping on Listers; she’s supposed to be continuing the research into the Bertinelli family and their latest leads.

But she can’t focus. There have been nights, of course, when Oliver has left the hood on its mannequin. He’s not Superman, and he knows it, catching sleep when he can. And he’d told them that he’d be heading to a party earlier in the night, so that explains the fact that he wasn’t in before them. But more often than not, it’s Oliver overworking they need to worry about, not underworking. Especially these days.

Maybe they’re still at odds a bit. Maybe Oliver’s just trying to push them away again, like John thinks he is.

It’s just, in the eight months Felicity has been working with him, he’s never once told them he was hooding up that night and then not shown. While his public persona might flake on events every now and again and show up late almost every time, if Oliver says he’s hitting the streets that night then he’s hitting the streets. She doesn’t think even her and Diggle leaving would have changed that.

She glances over at Digg again, who, deep in the audio tapes, seems to have lost track of time.

Screw it. Felicity starts to pull up the tracking information for Oliver’s Arrow phone. _It’s not invading his privacy_ , she tells herself. She and John have both been trying harder to respect Oliver’s boundaries since the talk they’d had a few weeks ago, when Digg had told her his epiphany that Oliver was only trying to push them away before they left of their own accord, but this is a man who had put a tracking chip in his own boot. It’s not invading his privacy.

(The boot in question is, sadly, not far from Felicity. While Oliver had been the one to suggest tracking him as the Green Arrow that only applies when he’s in costume. Which he’s not at the moment. That’s the whole problem.)

The information she pulls up on the screen makes her stomach drop.

No signal.

A year ago, Felicity would not have felt the sharp spike of fear that jolts through her at the two words. A year ago, she would have assumed Oliver had simply turned his phone off, or the battery had died. It happens.

Except it doesn’t. She knows that now – not with Oliver, at least. Even if this isn’t the phone that connects him to Quentin Lance and Laurel and Roy – and Superman – he still never turns it off, always makes sure it’s fully charged or near enough. Trying not to jump to conclusions, Felicity switches tracks. The Arrow’s phone can be tracked even when it’s off – Oliver’d made sure of that.

Felicity doesn’t care how mad at them Oliver might be – even if he wasn’t just hurt by them leaving, even if he truly was in a rage – he wouldn’t turn either phone off. And that means that someone else turned it off for him.

“Digg,” she says, low and anxious.

Even with the headphones on, her tone jolts him out of his concentration. Concerned look on his face, Digg pulls off his headphones. “What is it?”

“It’s Oliver,” Felicity says plainly. “His phone’s off.”

Digg knows instantly what that means. He stands, making his way to Felicity’s side in three powerful and fluid strides. “His other phone?” he asks, tone low and urgent.

Felicity’s stomach plummets as she gets her answer. “Destroyed.” Or at least, damaged enough that it’s not transmitting a signal. She ignores the dread, already typing furiously. A year ago, she wouldn’t have known what to do or where to look next. She’s not the same woman she once was and Digg and Oliver’s strategies have rubbed off on her. “No police reports in the area where the party was,” she says, except…

“That’s Roy’s street,” Digg states plainly, staring at an address where the police had been called for a kidnapping.

Felicity’s already clicking through to the information in the report, John reading it over her shoulder as she scans the text.

Disturbance in the street outside Roy’s house. Two victims. One male, one female. The male: Roy Harper, broken wrist, concussion, bruises and contusions. He’d been taken to a local hospital and it had taken a while to get a report from him. Current evidence supports what he’d said however, that he’d been with Thea Queen when he’d been beaten, and that Thea is now missing.

Felicity’s stomach drops further and further the more she reads. Roy’s in the hospital, barely coherent, and Thea’s missing. “They took both of them,” she says. It’s only happened within the last few hours, but she still can’t help but wonder how she couldn’t have known. It’s her job to know. It makes sense that they wouldn’t have been told, that no one would have notified them – Felicity is barely associated with Oliver and Diggle, as far as the public is concerned, is nothing more than his bodyguard; they aren’t exactly next of kin. But Felicity’s made it her job to know about all the crime in the Glades, it’s how she spends her nights. And she still hadn’t known. Instead she’d been too absorbed into the files on the Bertinelli family. But Diggle seems to almost relax somewhat at the news. “Good,” he says, “that’s good.”

Felicity spins in her chair to look at him, eyes wide and mind repulsed by the words. “What about this situation is good?!” she almost shrieks.

“They took Oliver and Thea,” John responds, much more calmly. “But they left Roy behind. Which means this probably has to do with the Queens – not the Green Arrow.”

Understanding seeps over Felicity’s mind. She wouldn’t say the information Digg had surmised is _good_ , exactly, but it’s certainly not bad. “It means they’ll underestimate him,” she says slowly. But how much will that really help Oliver? He hadn’t managed to fight them off and stop them from destroying his phone. He hadn’t managed to prevent himself from being kidnapped in the first place. (If he has been kidnapped. If he isn’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere.)

Digg seems much more pleased by the fact than she is and Felicity spins back to the computers, thinking hard.

“And if they were after the Queens,” Diggle says, “this might have something to do with Tommy’s kidnapping.”

More guilt washes over Felicity at the thought. It had been her job to conduct the research on Tommy’s kidnappers and it had been her information that had decided that they had been acting alone. If they hadn’t been, if someone had planned both that kidnapping and this one, then it was her who missed that and her who put Oliver and Thea in danger as a result.

(If she’d seen that, maybe John would have been with Oliver tonight, instead of his new job guarding Tommy during the day.)

She shakes her head, more because she doesn’t want it to be true than because she thinks it isn’t. “How do we find them?” she asks, already searching through all the other police reports from the night, searching for even the barest hint of something that seems out of place. They have proof of Thea’s abduction, but the only hint that Oliver is missing is the fact that his phone is off. It’s enough for her and Digg, but it wouldn’t be for anyone else.

Digg hesitates. “When they took Tommy they drove around for hours. Chances are, Oliver and Thea are still in trunks somewhere, driving around the Glades.”

It’s not really an answer, and not really a solution either. Just a statement that draws attention to their helplessness. “What if it’s not like the guys who took Tommy?”

The look Digg gives her says that he already doesn’t have a clue where to go from there. When Tommy had been taken, his phone had been intentionally broken before the incident, to make it seem like there was a reason he wasn’t in touch with anybody.

The kidnappers haven’t bothered with that this time, they’ve just broken the phones themselves as they’d taken their victims. They’re not bothering to hide the abductions this time, at least not with Thea. There is no trail for Felicity to track. The only thing she can even think to do is to go back over the information she’d found before about Tommy’s kidnappers, to dig deeper for a link between them, or even a link between them and others living in the Glades.

But if this isn’t the same situation as Tommy’s kidnapping, if these people aren’t related – or even if they’re just copycats, inspired by Tommy’s kidnapping from a few weeks ago – Felicity’s research will turn up nothing, will be a complete waste of time. She doesn’t know what to do and Diggle doesn’t look like he does either.

“We can’t just sit here and wait for Oliver to rescue himself,” she says desperately, looking up at her friend standing beside her. “We have to _do_ something.” Because she can’t help but wonder whether or not Oliver _will_ rescue himself. That would mean blowing his cover, showing what he’s capable of.

In response, John glances over at the Green Arrow costume, snug in its display. His brow is furrowed and he’s clearly thinking hard.

“These guys have gotta be from the Glades, whether they’re related to Tommy’s kidnapping or not. The timing’s too soon to be otherwise.” His frown is thoughtful, his gaze distant. “Change of tactics. You remember the profiles on Tommy’s kidnappers. Find any other residents of the Glades who have similar histories. Criminal records, and lost jobs or family members or houses after the miniquake.”

“A lot of people lost things,” Felicity replies, even as she spins back to the computers and gets to work. “What will you be doing?” she throws over her shoulder. Diggle’s response stops her in her tracks.

“I think there’s some people the Green Arrow should be questioning right about now.”

She spins back to face him. “ _Now_?” she asks incredulously. “You really think right now is the best time to take Oliver’s place? Is that really what we should be doing?” She’d seen the hospital’s report after Tommy’s rescue. She doesn’t want to see the same thing for Oliver. Or Thea.

“Someone needs to talk to the people you come up with,” John counters. “And there are others on the street I can question. People who might know things. Besides, Oliver has contingency plans in place – he doesn’t want to be suspected of being the Green Arrow again. If these people _did_ take him because they suspect something, the sight of the Green Arrow out and about tonight might change their minds.”

They’re valid arguments, both of them, but Felicity isn’t entirely convinced it’s the best use of their time. The problem is, she doesn’t know what _is_. She’s not the woman she was a year ago – she knows the SCPD’s network like the back of her hand and how to map out escape routes and even how to throw a proper punch – but she’s still not a hundred percent sure of the proper procedure to follow after a kidnapping.

“Fine,” she says, spinning once more to return to her computers. “Just…”

“Don’t get too close to anyone,” John finishes for her, and Felicity has to remind herself that he knows what he’s doing. At least, more than she does.

Feeling utterly lost without Oliver there by their sides, the two of them get to work.

* * *

Hours spent trapped in the pitch-black trunk of a moving car is enough to exhaust anyone, but Oliver had known that fact going into his situation. He’d also known he couldn’t afford to let the trip drain him of his energy and had forced his body to react accordingly. He doesn’t sleep, exactly, but he lets his mind drift. With great difficulty he puts Thea from his mind, forces himself to forget about her, and not worry, forces himself to relax both mind and body.

It’s not exactly restful, and it’s certainly not easy, but when the car pulls to a stop (somewhere between four and five hours later, Oliver estimates) he’s not strung out. He lets himself recoil back at the sudden influx of light as the trunk opens, purposefully staggers to his feet as they pull him out, as though his legs can’t hold him. Blinking rapidly even though the light is actually quite dim, Oliver has already decided to make them underestimate him more than they already do.

_I am not a threat_ , he says with his body, with his shaky movements and his dead eyes and the wince that crosses his face as they rip the tape from his mouth. (Last time he’d been kidnapped as Oliver Queen, he’d slipped his bindings and snapped his captor’s necks (actually, last time, Helena had been the one snapping necks) but that’s not an option anymore.)

Plus, his efforts to appear disoriented slow them down, giving Oliver time to study his environment. Their surroundings are lit by artificial yellow light alone, no hint of outdoor lighting. (Oliver estimates it’s just about dawn. He wonders if anyone has noticed his or Thea’s absence yet, wonders yet again if Thea is even in danger, wonders what Felicity and Diggle had done when he hadn’t shown up at the foundry. Wonders if Felicity and Diggle had even been in the foundry, though that last thought is just him being pessimistic – they’ve been there every night he has, lately, as though they’ve got something to prove.)

They’re in an otherwise empty underground garage of some sort, just like the building that Tommy had been held in had had, only somewhat smaller. Rough concrete walls, pitted and dull gray, surround them, pillars spaced strategically to hold up the weight of the floors above him.

Already they are underestimating him, with only one man gripping tight to his right elbow as the others wander on ahead. Oliver struggles a little, seemingly weak and exhausted, purposefully wincing at the tight grip, but is mostly content to let them think he was worn down by his time in the trunk.

“Where’s my sister?” he demands to know, only his voice cracks from his thirst and comes out low and defeated.

The man beside him only tightens his fingers on Oliver’s arm for a moment, pushing him roughly forward. The two men up ahead barely react.

Once more, mental calculations run rampant in Oliver’s mind. He could easily take the three men before him. Slip the cuffs, twist to the side to slip the grip on his arm as well, and put the man holding him in a chokehold until he drops. Then onto the other two, and a short but brutal fight before they make their way to the floor as well.

But he can’t do it silently. The man pushing him forward, sure, but the other two are sure to notice when he goes down. Oliver can use their companion as a shield if they have the time to draw their guns – he’s not worried about that – but he can’t prevent them from calling out for help. And he’s not going to give these men – or any partners they might have – any reason to put a gun to Thea’s head.

Only by sheer force of will does Oliver keep walking forward, and only because Thea lies at the end of his journey does he allow himself to be led. ( _If_ Thea lies at the end of his journey. If they aren’t lying. But Oliver can’t let himself think like that. He can second guess himself once the danger has passed, but not before then.) His shoulders ache from the hours his hands have spent pulled behind his back. His stomach is empty, his mouth dry. Even his legs are weaker, folded tightly as they’d been.

These things are all easily ignored. They are merely signals, his body communicating with his brain, and Oliver has long practice in ignoring such signals. He is ready to act, even if his arms feel too heavy and his gut too light. His adrenaline has started to spike again, his vision sharpening, fueled by the anger in his gut.

The men before him have helped to kidnap his sister. Have presumably treated her in the exact same way he is now being treated. They will learn the consequences of such actions. That’s a promise.

Simmering with barely concealed frustration and an instinctual need to act, Oliver lets himself be led up the stairs. The set-up is similar to the building Tommy had been kept in but not the same. Their footsteps echo through the abandoned halls, but it appears as though there is only one floor, with the basement garage beneath it.

The stairway lets out into a bland hallway, walls painted an off-white that’s faded with time and is flaking in places, covered with dirt and the occasional graffiti. Some of the ceiling panels are gone but most are still in place. The electricity seems to be on and working (Oliver idly wonders if Felicity can track them that way, by narrowing down abandoned buildings still drawing electricity). One of the fluorescent bulbs flickers, its holder hanging askew.

It’s not an open floor plan like the office building Tommy was kept in. That helps. There are offices off the hallway, though the doors are all closed and Oliver can’t see inside. Still, the terrain is more favorable for hand to hand fighting. Gives him places to duck into and makes it less likely someone will be able to shoot him.

Once they enter the hallway they don’t go much further. They pause outside the third door along the way and, with a quick flip of a switchblade, Oliver’s bindings are cut.

His hands spring forward of their own accord, reacting to the sudden lack of tension in his shoulders, and he lets himself give in to the relief and the pain that comes from the change in the positions of his muscles, allowing it to show on his face. (But he bites back any sound that another might give. This pain is nothing and though he wants to appear weaker than he is he will not give them that satisfaction.)

They’re going to shove him inside the room, Oliver knows, and his mind whirs again, frantic with activity. If Thea’s inside, then any companions of the three with him are not around. Or, at least, not immediately nearby. Now would be the time to act.

But if she’s not inside, if she’s in another room, or still trapped in the trunk of a car meandering its way through the Glades, then attacking these men will get him nothing and only alert anyone else in the building. And Oliver only cares about the course of action most likely to keep Thea safe.

The leader pulls out a key, but Oliver doesn’t let himself believe that the fact that the door is already locked means that Thea is inside. So he forces himself to remain still, watching as the man unlocks the door and pulls it open, then lets himself be shoved inside.

* * *

Thea isn’t in the room. Thea isn’t in the room and Oliver finds himself pacing its short length, back and forth, back and forth, wound up with an energy he aches to use but refuses to let himself tap into.

Thea isn’t in the room and Oliver won’t let himself act until he sees her, or hears her, or knows she’s somewhere safe, out of the line of fire, unguarded.

_If you see her_ , his inner voice whispers suspiciously. It’s getting harder and harder to ignore.

Maybe the confidence in the lead kidnapper’s voice had simply been confidence that his words would get Oliver to stand down. Maybe they don’t have Thea at all.

But Oliver won’t let his thoughts go down that path any more than he’ll let his body spring into action. He knows the danger of letting his thoughts wander during a mission. This isn’t a mission – it wasn’t planned, wasn’t thought out, doesn’t have contingencies and back-ups – but it’s close enough. It’s someone else’s mission being enacted with him as the target and now Oliver needs to plan his own to break free.

He can second guess himself when everything is done with, when Thea’s home safe, he reminds himself for the second time, but not before then. (And would he really attack anyway, even if they don’t have Thea? Would he really risk everything, when, if this is anything like Tommy’s kidnapping, they only plan to rough him up a bit to get answers to their questions? He can hold out for a week or two even, if it’s just him, until someone tracks him down or it becomes obvious the men don’t plan to let him live.)

Only after a few minutes have passed does Oliver manage to calm himself. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t be a problem. Whatever the dangers to him, Oliver’s experiences have taught him to stay as focused as he can at all times and not let your emotions get the best of you. So far, since he’s come home, he’s managed that well enough. He even controlled his anger well enough when he’d discovered Malcolm Merlyn was the black archer, the architect of his father’s death, the would-be destroyer of the Glades.

But this time it’s Thea in danger. Oliver needs a few moments to come to terms with that and move past it. He knows he’s no help to her if he lets himself lose his focus. She doesn’t need a worried and helpless older brother. She needs the Arrow. (And yet, she can’t _know_ he’s the Arrow.)

Since he’s been back, Oliver’s used his hood and his bow to keep his two identities from overlapping, to keep the monster within him from creeping into his everyday life – to help him compartmentalize the thoughts running free in his mind. He doesn’t have the hood with him at the moment but in the dark closet that is his cell – that reminds him of the _Amazo_ , of the underground caverns of Lian Yu, of the prison cells in Russia – it doesn’t take him much effort to slip into that mindset.

He’s not in Star City, he tells himself, he’s not Oliver Queen. He is the Arrow and he has a mission to complete, a kidnapped young woman to save. He takes a deep breath, stills his beating heart, and focuses on what he knows and what he doesn’t. Logic, pure and simple. What are the components of this mission, what does he still need to find out, and how can he do that?

The objective: Get Thea to safety.

The obstacles: He’s in a locked cell. He doesn’t know where Thea is, or if she’s even nearby. He doesn’t even really know if Thea’s actually in danger. He’s sore, hungry, tired, and thirsty, after days (and weeks, lately) of not treating his body properly and hours spent in a cramped car trunk. There are at least three armed men somewhere else in the building and almost certainly actually more than that. He can’t act without showing his kidnappers what Oliver Queen is capable of. He doesn’t know what his kidnappers actually want, nor how far they’re willing to go to get it.

If he waits, if his kidnappers choose to question him and Thea at the same time (likely, because they can then be used against each other), that will take care of the first three obstacles, and hint at the last one with the questions they ask. That means waiting until they remove him from his locked cell and take him to his sister.

The fourth obstacle is harder to do something about. Tommy had been given bottled water on occasion but nothing else. The only thing Oliver can do is loosen his tight muscles and rest as best he can until they come for him.

The fifth and sixth obstacles present the biggest challenges. If Oliver waits until he’s reunited with Thea at their discretion then he’ll likely be face to face with all the kidnappers at once, however many of them there are. If he loses the ensuing fight…

He’ll just have to win. And however much he doesn’t want Thea to see the monster within him, keeping her safe and whole is more than worth that cost. (It’s the same decision he’d made when he’d shown Tommy his true self too.)

And yet… Even if Thea’s here, even if they get questioned together… If Oliver can keep all the focus on himself, ensure that they are aware Thea knows nothing from the beginning… But scars aren’t just physical, Oliver knows. Is he really willing to put Thea through that, to let her see that, just to protect his secret? No, he’ll fight. Even if that means she discovers the entire truth. He’d rather lose her because of his secret than because of anything these thugs might do.

Considerably calmer, Oliver finally evaluates his surroundings as he lets his brain work through the situation in the background. The area he’s in is not really a room and not really a cell. It’s an enlarged closet, likely used for storage or janitorial supplies and the like when the building was occupied. Except for him and a plastic bucket in the corner the makeshift cell is barren. The only light comes from the slim window over the door, leading out into the hallway, too thin for Oliver to squeeze through. The floor is concrete, solid and unbreakable. The walls…

Oliver knocks lightly on the wall to his left. Plaster, but the good kind. He could punch a hole through it with his fist if he didn’t mind busting his knuckles but making an opening large enough to fit through would render him almost useless by the end of it and surely generate too much noise. The ceiling tiles, on the other hand… They’re exactly the same as they are in a million other office buildings and schools across the country, porous and flimsy white plaster rectangles sitting loosely on a thin metal grid.

No one ever thinks to look up.

Maybe Oliver doesn’t have to wait until they take him to Thea. That is, if there’s actually access to the next room over. Sometimes there isn’t enough space between the pipes and wirings usually positioned in the ceiling – Oliver won’t know until he takes a look.

Even if there is some room, there won’t be much space between the ceiling tiles and the actual ceiling, and the ceiling tiles won’t hold his weight for long, if at all. But Oliver doesn’t need them to. If it’s possible, he has no intention of crawling through the ceiling like some action hero from the movies he’s been catching up on and watching with his little sister by his side. He just needs to get to the next room over.

The ceiling is high, ever so slightly out of his reach, but that isn’t much of a problem either. He can jump to push a tile out of the way, then pull himself up by his fingertips.

The next questions are which direction and how soon. Re-positioning a tile might create some noise, but it’s been long enough that his kidnappers have no doubt gotten to wherever else in the building they’d intended to go to. Whether that is a guard post just outside his door or a room all the way down the hall Oliver has no way of knowing. He certainly hasn’t heard anything from just outside the door, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Either way, it’ll probably be safer if he makes his way into one of the rooms next to his, rather than the hallway outside the door, and waiting only allows for the possibility of their return.

Choosing a room, Oliver decides examine his right first. It’s the opposite direction from the way he’d come but he’d seen no sign of Thea on the way in so he’s not ready to leave just yet. Might as well venture further into the building. And there’s no time like the present.

He pushes aside a lone tile first, then waits patiently as one, then two minutes pass without any response to the slight noise. Then he hoists himself up until his elbows rest on the wall between rooms and his feet dangle off the floor and his hair tickles the pipes above him.

No luck. The wall might be load bearing – there’s a gap between the tiles and the concrete ceiling above them, filled with pipes and wires, but there’s no connection to the next room over. Whether it’s luck or planning on his captors’ parts is impossible to say.

Footsteps against the thin carpeting outside. Oliver drops to the ground, senses alert, and nudges the ceiling tile haphazardly back into place. It’s a little crooked but he doubts they’re coming for him, not after so short a time. Tommy was left to stew alone in his cell for hours before they even bothered to question him. (It’s a way of messing with your hostage’s mind, removing their sense of time from them. On people like Tommy and Thea, who had never been kidnapped before (or, at least, not for long stretches of time) it works fairly well. On someone like Oliver it’s meaningless, though his captors don’t know that of course.

Standing in the middle of his cell, Oliver listens hard, trying to absorb any knowledge he can from only the muffled sounds of multiple footsteps. But the footsteps overlap, one after the other, some at the same time, others just a beat off from the rest, and all Oliver can tell is that there are multiple people in the hall, some more light footed than the others, and that none of them are speaking.

Then the footsteps pause and metal scrapes together as the key fumbles its way into the lock.

Maybe he was wrong. Maybe they have come for him. Or maybe…

Oliver dares not hope. Hope is dangerous. He holds himself ready for the worst possible outcome instead and refuses to think about the best. (It does not cross his mind that the best outcome he can think of seeing is Thea being shoved into the cell with him and not Digg or another rescuer come to find him. Oliver’s mind is practical. It’s barely past dawn if his internal clock is still accurate and it’s unlikely anyone even knows he’s missing yet. With the way he’s been giving them the cold shoulder, even Digg and Felicity probably think he skipped out on them.)

The door opens briefly. Oliver catches glimpses of the world outside his confinement. The light is dim, he knows this, but it is still so much brighter than the darkness of his cell. It turns the figures in the doorway into shadowy silhouettes, indistinguishable except for their varying heights. Oliver blinks, waiting for the effect to fade, for his eyes to adjust, but they don’t give him long enough.

They shove a smaller figure into the cell with him and slam the door shut as they leave.

Oliver ignores the ringing in his ears and the strain on his eyes. When he’d first come home his sister had been almost a stranger to him, five years older than he’d last seen her (excepting the visit to Star City, courtesy of ARGUS) and practically grown up. Now he knows he would recognize that silhouette anywhere.

Thea stumbles into the room, unsteady on her feet, unusually cowed, and without thought, without hesitation, Oliver moves to her side. 

His rage, his frustration, his need to act gets put on hold at the sight of her fear and he moves to envelop her in his arms, as though he can shield her from the world’s dangers with his embrace alone. She flinches back at first contact, still rattled, but Oliver can’t blame her for that. If her night was anything like his…

Judging from the bruise blossoming on her face and the shakiness of her limbs, her night was probably worse. Rage courses through Oliver again, still tempered by the sight of her standing before him.

“Ollie?” she asks after the flinch has passed, finally getting stock of her surroundings. “What’s… what’s going on?”

A hand on either of her biceps, Oliver’s anger keeps his back straight and his body upright but his love and his worry softens his expression and turns his fingers gentle. “Don’t worry,” he tells her, soft and strong and firm, “we’ll get out of this.”

“Roy,” she says, still frazzled, still shaken. “They hurt Roy.” And she’s still thinking of people other than herself.

“Roy will be fine,” Oliver says, just as gentle and certain. “You’ll see him soon, I promise.”

Finally, Thea blinks. Her hands reach upward, grabbing at his own forearms, still outstretched to hold her tight. “Ollie?” she asks, as though she’s seeing him for the first time.

Oliver understands what she’s asking. “I’m fine,” he tells her. “Did they hurt you?”

Thea winces at a memory but shakes her head. “No, I…”

“They put me in a trunk for a few hours,” Oliver says, knowing that’s probably what’s shaken her so much and destroyed her sense of time so entirely.

She nods in agreement and steadies herself. She lets go of his arms but doesn’t pull away from his own unwavering grip. “This is the same thing that happened to Tommy, isn’t it?”

There’s no point in lying to her. “It looks that way,” he says. He can’t be sure, but at the very least it’s similar. “But we’ll be fine, we’ll get out of this.”

“Why?” Thea asks, slightly sardonic. “You think the Arrow will come for us?”

Oliver isn’t really willing to answer that but… “You think he won’t?” he asks in return. Does Thea think so little of his other self?

But she softens at his question. “No, he probably will,” she admits. “He came for Tommy. He found Roy when he needed him. And…” she looks up at him, hesitant, and Oliver suddenly realizes that she’d never told her brother about the close call she and Roy and Sin had had in the Glades.

He’d never pushed or questioned her about her shaky and hesitant attitude that week because he’d forgotten that Oliver Queen didn’t know his sister had been in danger. Because she’d reacted to his concern by reminding him about what Tommy had gone through and spent most of her time with Roy. But he _had_ known, so he’d kept an eye on her and somehow it had slipped his mind that she hadn’t told him the truth about that night.

“And,” Thea continues, “he rescued me once. When… when I was in the Glades with some friends.”

They are locked together in a cell having been transported there zip-tied in the backs of trunks. Thea doesn’t need him to scold her for keeping this from him just now. Of course, it helps that Oliver isn’t surprised by the information.

“I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but he’s saved me too,” Oliver responds. Truth, and lie, all at once. But there’s no time to linger on questions and debates about the Arrow. The Arrow isn’t coming for them. He’s already here.

How can Oliver tell her that? How can Oliver force those words out past his lips? His chest is tight, his muscles tense. It’s been a few minutes, and the sounds of footsteps have faded, so Oliver pulls away from his now-calmed sister. He doesn’t want to lie to her, but he can’t come up with the words.

_Having her hate me, here and now, is ten times better than watching her get beaten,_ he tells himself, and means it, except… He doesn’t know how to say it. He’s never actually told anyone when someone’s life wasn’t in danger. Roy, Lance, Laurel, they’re still in the dark. He’d told Diggle when he’d saved his life, told Felicity when he’d needed her to save his, told Tommy when Malcolm was dying in front of him.

_I am the Arrow_. In principle, the words are simple. In all actuality, Oliver’s finding it as hard to say them as it usually is to talk about his five years away.

“When they open the door,” he says instead, “stay behind me.”

Thea blinks and looks at him in confusion. “What?”

A little bit of the truth, that’s the only way he can explain himself now. The rest can come later. When he can show her, rather than tell her.

“When I was…” Oliver swallows, feels his throat tighten and his mouth dry up. It’s still so difficult to talk about it, even here, even in these circumstances, even with Thea in danger. “When I was on the island,” he manages to get out, “I… I wasn’t alone. You… you saw my scars.” Truth. And one she might already know, if she’s talked to Laurel, or had gotten a good enough look to realize that most of his scars couldn’t have come from accidental injuries. “And I, um, I… I learned to fight, a bit. Learned how to survive.” Truth. Not everything. Not enough. _Learned to fight_ is such a vast oversimplification of what he’s capable of. “I won’t let them hurt you,” he promises.  

_The whole truth can come later_ , he thinks to himself again. If she doesn’t hate him or fear him after this is all over and done with.

Thea stares at him, still slightly confused, expression torn between her earlier fear and uncertainty and now concern, and a different uncertainty all together. “Oliver…” she starts, and there’s a question in his name – there’s a million questions, all bubbling beneath her surface.

Oliver meets her gaze unflinchingly. After this… He can’t hide the truth from her any longer. No matter how much he wants to. He can – _will –_ stop her from needing to suffer – his secret isn’t worth that.

“When… when we get out of here, if you still want to hear it, I’ll tell you the truth about what happened to me on that island.” Half-truth. He’s not sure he’ll be able to get the details out, but he can tell her what Laurel knows, that he was tortured there. He can tell her what Tommy knows, that he’d become a killer there. He can tell her what Felicity and Diggle know, that he’d been trained and he’d come home with the intention of using that training to right their father’s wrongs.

The Thea of a year ago would have lit up at the prospect of learning the truth. She wouldn’t have had a clue of what it meant, or the evil that lurks in Oliver’s past (in his soul). This Thea has been hardened and tempered by the past year, has learned that her mother is capable of murder and gotten to know a little bit better the hardships the people of the Glades face and seen her boyfriend and brother’s best friend kidnapped (on separate occasions). This Thea is standing in a locked cell with her older brother, wrists and shoulders aching as she stares into his too-calm face.

“Oliver…” she says again. “This… this isn’t the first time this has happened to you, is it? Those scars…”

This Thea is much more observant.

“No,” Oliver says plainly. No point in lying. “When we get out of here,” he repeats.

She gives a firm nod in response. “Then let’s get out of here.”

She’s compartmentalizing, Oliver recognizes, like him. She’s setting aside the questions and the fear, pushing everything not immediately relevant to the side until they deal with their current problem. (Her hands are still shaking, a little.) He’d never wanted her to learn how to do that. (But then, it’s not all that different from the life they’d grown up into, pushing aside your emotions and putting on a polite smile and acting the gracious host, no matter the occasion.)

It's over quickly, in the end (at least, by the time the men come for them). The man holding the zip ties waits for them in the hallway when the door opens, clearly not expecting a fight. Oliver nods for Thea to stay in the closet, then shuts the door behind him as he leaves – from the brief glimpse of her expression that he catches, she wasn’t expecting that, and she won’t be happy about it, but Oliver doesn’t care. He’s not taking any risks.

The men in the hallway weren’t expecting it either. Only one of them even has his gun out, carrying it only as a threat rather than out of any expectation of using it.

If Oliver were dressed in his hood and carrying his bow, the three men before him might actually have stood a chance. As it is, sometimes surprise is all the advantage he needs. Once they’re all groaning on the floor, Oliver uses their own zip ties to strap their hands behind their backs.

(They’re not dead. For the most part, they’re still semi-conscious. They can see him clearly. They know perfectly well who attacked them. _They’re not dead_. Oliver can’t help but contemplate breaking their necks, slitting their throats. As soon as he leaves here he’s putting everyone in his life in danger. They might not know he’s the Green Arrow, and maybe that’ll be enough to protect his friends and family, but they’ll know he’s not what he seems either. _They’re not dead_ , and he’s making a bad strategic decision by allowing them to live.)

Oliver pulls a phone from the nearest man’s pocket, then turns back to the closet. The door’s already open, Thea hesitating in the doorway. She’d caught the tail end of the fight, if that, but, even if she hadn’t, he knows that the sight of the three men on the ground would be startling, especially because he’s not even breathing hard.

He almost hands her the phone to call the police. Almost. But then these men would be arrested, and they’d spill the story of being taken down by Oliver Queen. Three to one, armed to unarmed, and he’d beaten them easily. He can’t risk that story getting out. He pockets the phone.

“Stay inside,” he warns his sister, the Arrow’s gruffness warring with Oliver Queen’s concern. “I don’t know where the others went.”

“Oliver –”

“Stay inside,” Oliver repeats, cutting his sister off. He only recognizes two of these men, which means there is, at minimum, one other person in the building. And if they’d grabbed Thea at roughly the same time as him – grabbed her while Roy was with her – then he’s willing to be there’s at least two more people he hasn’t seen.

“What if they come this way while you’re gone?” Thea asks, stubborn and defiant, and it’s just about the only thing she could have said to give him pause.

He grits his teeth. “Then help me get them inside,” he says, indicating the men on the ground.

She blinks. “Aren’t we… can’t we call the police?”

They should. It’s the safest option. And Oliver can’t leave these men here to rot. But he’s not alone, he remembers. Felicity and Diggle…

It’s well past sunrise, but still early. If they’d shown up to the foundry last night ( _they did,_ he tells himself, _you’ve seen what they’ve been like lately_ ) then they’ve definitely left by now. But…

He pulls Thea aside, down the hall and into another room out of view, and takes out the phone again, dials Diggle. With an unrecognizable number, there’s no guarantee his bodyguard (partner; friend) will pick up, but Oliver doesn’t have to do this alone. (But what will Diggle and Felicity think of his dilemma, of his desire to keep his secret warring with his promise not to kill? What will they think of the ideas rattling around in his brain to find a compromise between those two extremes?)

“Diggle,” Diggle answers promptly, on the second ring. He sounds distracted, but not as if he’d just woken up.

Late night? Nightmares? Early morning? Or could he really have spent the night at the foundry, worrying about Oliver?

It doesn’t matter right now.

“It’s me,” he says shortly. “Thea’s with me.”

“Oliver!” Digg says, then, off to the side, voice fainter. “It’s Oliver.” His voice returns to full strength. “Felicity’s with me, we’re still at Verdant. What’s your situation?”

He doesn’t have to say that Felicity is already tracking Oliver’s call, and Oliver doesn’t have to ask. They’re not firing on all cylinders lately, but they still know how to operate as a team, they still know exactly what the others are capable of.

“Uninjured,” Oliver summarizes briefly, he glances over at Thea, watching him anxiously and with a small amount of confusion on her face. “Roy?” he asks.

“Broken wrist, some bruises, but he’s already out of the hospital,” Diggle responds promptly. “Your leg?”

Oliver blinks for barely a moment, not sure if he’s more surprised that Diggle hadn’t taken him at his word or by the fact that Digg’s aware the wound he’d gotten rescuing Tommy – and hadn’t let heal properly at first – is still bothering him slightly.

“Fine,” he says, feeling a pang in his chest at the concern. That can wait though. “I’ve subdued three of the men, I don’t know how many others there are in the building.”

“Want to wait for the Green Arrow to rescue you?” Diggle asks, and there are a million and one ways Oliver’s brain wants to process that statement. Diggle’s willing to put on the suit for him. He’s asking if they can pretend the Green Arrow rescued the Queens. He’s wondering how they’re going to cover this up. He’s…

He’s Oliver’s partner. And he might leave again – probably will, eventually; Oliver doesn’t think even his two hardworking friends could do this forever – but while he’s a part of the Arrow’s team, he’s a part of the Arrow’s team. It’s a hell of a time to have that kind of revelation.

“It’s too late for that,” Oliver says instead, and he can practically feel Thea vibrating at his side by now, strung out with nerves and fear and uncertainty. She can only hear half of the conversation, after all.

“They know?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them to put two and two together.” It’d be a bit of a leap, actually, but they certainly know something.

There’s a faint exclamation over the line. “Felicity’s got your location man, I’m coming to you,” Diggle says.

Oliver almost hangs up. Almost tells Diggle not to come. He’s got an idea now of how to handle his problem, and he’s not sure Digg would like it. It’s his spur-of-the-moment, field decisions that forced Digg and Felicity to leave the last time. But he doesn’t have the time to debate this either.

“Come as yourself, I’ll meet you outside with Thea,” he says, and then he does hang up.

“Who was that?” Thea asks, leaning forward, shoulders tense, eyebrows tight. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

“Thea,” Oliver says, carefully, softly, firmly. She relaxes minutely, stilling. “After,” he says, reminding her of his promise.

“But…”

It’s a lot to take in, he knows. Promising to tell her the truth eventually does nothing for her confusion now. _Of course_ she’s wondering why he hasn’t called the police.

He places a hand on her shoulder. “Roy’s alright,” he tells her instead of explaining anything. “Already out of the hospital.”

She sags into his touch. “Thank god.”

“C’mon,” he urges her. “Let’s get out of here.”

He leads her back into the hall.

As he reenters the hallway with Thea though, Oliver can’t help but glance in the wrong direction, away from where they need to go to escape. Somewhere down the hall are men who thought it was a good idea to kidnap his little sister and Oliver aches to show them why that was such a bad decision. But Thea’s still with him and while they’re in the building Thea’s still in danger. He plots and he plans as he turns his back on his enemies’ position to shepherd her to safety. 

Down the hall and down the stairs they go without any complications. There are two cars in the garage, both empty and unguarded. But Oliver doesn’t have the key to those. He memorizes the license plates instead as Thea works on getting the door to the outside open. Mere minutes after Thea was pushed into a cell with him the two of them are on the streets of the Glades, safe and relatively unharmed.

Oliver still doesn’t relax. He leads Thea a few buildings over, urges her to climb through a broken window, then climbs in after her.

“We need to, we need to call the police,” Thea tells him again, not relaxing either, still riding high on adrenaline from the danger they’d just escaped and smart enough to know they’re not quite free yet. 

Oliver dials Digg again instead. “Three buildings east,” he says, when Digg answers, then hangs up without waiting on a response.

“Oliver, what’s going on?” Thea asks. Now that they’re away from the danger, her body’s finally letting her know that it’s safe to panic.

“That was Digg,” he explains, “he’s coming to get you.”

Thea blinks, unfortunately focusing on the latter half of Oliver’s statement, rather than the first half. “ _Me?_ What about you?”

“Someone needs to talk to the authorities,” Oliver says, carefully avoiding using the word police.

Thea shakes her head almost frantically. “I’m not, I’m not just going to _leave_ you –”

“Digg will take you home,” Oliver cuts in. “And then I’ll explain. I promise.”

It’s not quite enough to settle Thea, but she’s still rattled and uncertain and shaky, so a few more careful words from Oliver are enough to get her to stop pressing for the moment. When Digg pulls up outside Oliver ushers her into the backseat without another complaint – from her or Diggle. Thea just gives him an anxious look, as if worried about separating. Digg’s look is more calculating, more evaluating, but he doesn’t ask what Oliver plans to do either.

Oliver doesn’t know if that signifies a lack of trust, or the presence of it, but he’s not going to question it either way. As the car pulls away he pulls out the stolen phone one last time and makes one more phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more days, and Chapter 24: Truth (and Lies) should be up Nov. 24th.


	24. Truth (and Lies)

_November 24, 2013, mid-afternoon:_

The thing about rescuing yourself from your own kidnapping, and then calling a secret government agency to take care of your kidnappers, is that you can’t tell the world what happened. Waller, though not pleased to be at his beck and call, had agreed that she still owed him at least one favor and had been willing to send ARGUS agents in to take care of the men who’d kidnapped him and Thea. (Quite frankly, Oliver knows she doesn’t want his identity as the Arrow to get out either, because that might lead into an investigation into his past and the work he’d done for ARGUS, and he hadn’t been afraid to lean into that. She’ll still probably consider this to be more than the favor she owed him though. She’ll still probably be demanding something of him in the future. Oliver will cross that bridge when he comes to it.)

Her help means that the kidnappers stay alive for her to question them and that no one is walking around telling stories about Oliver Queen escaping a locked cell and choking out the guard watching him. Her help means that she’s the one (or, well, ARGUS is at least) who has to explain to the SCPD why they no longer have a case.

It also means that Oliver didn’t have a good excuse for his irritation and lack of sleep when Queen Consolidated had called a board meeting in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday. (It had been more of a lunch than a board meeting, truthfully, a more casual get-together more about politics and making nice than business, but it had been something Oliver couldn’t ignore. Not after the way he’d been acting lately, not after Carlin’s death, not if he wanted to remain an equal participant.)

When he finally gets back to Queen Manor, he’s wrung out from acting like a carefree playboy learning to care about his family’s company. But Thea’s sitting on the couch in the living room, news on in the background, and Oliver can’t put that off either. He knows it’s high past time he gave her those answers he promised her. She can only be focused on making sure Roy’s okay, on swallowing past her own fear, for so long.

(She’d only caught the tail end of his fight, if that, so she’s barely even seen a hint of the monster inside him, doesn’t realize that he’s something to fear. He doesn’t want to shatter that illusion, but he owes her the truth.)

He moves into the living room and takes a seat on the opposite side of the couch from her. With Thanksgiving coming at the end of the week and the six-month anniversary of the miniquake having been less than ten days ago, the news is discussing the events of that night back in May, talking about what’s changed since then, about Malcolm Merlyn, about Moira Queen’s recent decision to go to trial, about giving thanks to not just Superman but also the everyday people who’d helped keep order after the chaos. And about the Arrow.

For a moment, neither siblings speaks, absently watching the television without listening.

Thea is the first to break the silence. “I… I’ve seen your scars,” she says, shaky, uncertain. Hurt – but for him, rather than by him. “I guess I always knew…”

“Knew what?” Oliver replies softly, prompting her rather than contradicting her.

She finally turns to look at him. “That you weren’t alone on that island. That… that someone hurt you, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Oliver says, though he doesn’t want to. He’s going to tell her a portion of the truth, but she doesn’t need to hear about that. “I… I had to learn some things to survive. Things I… I never wanted to tell you about.” He can’t help remembering the conversation he’d had with Laurel all those months ago. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know about his scars or his suffering because he hadn’t wanted them to see him as damaged. But Laurel still doesn’t know that he’d given out a greater number of scars than there are on his own body to other people, because he doesn’t want her to see him as a monster.

Looking at his sister now, Oliver considers telling her the same thing. Talking briefly about his scars and his suffering but avoiding the topic of his own monster entirely. But he has seen the way she has suffered in the wake of their mother’s secrets – and her anger at their mother’s _continued_ secrets. And she loves him, he knows, no matter how little he deserves it (or, at least, she loves him now, she might not in just a few minutes). Telling her about his suffering will only hurt her.

He will not tell her everything – how could he, when he can barely force the painful words out from between his lips, when he cannot make his mouth move the way he wants it to and his throat seems to close up at the very memories – but he will tell her enough. And if she hates him… If she hates him…

Oliver doesn’t know what he’ll do if she hates him. It will be worse than Tommy’s fear and disgust, he knows that much, but he doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to weather it.

It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about him.

At the moment, Thea seems torn on how to proceed. “What are you saying Ollie?” she asks, voice hesitant and unsure – so unlike the woman that had greeted him when he’d come home, absolutely unafraid to speak her mind. (That is not necessarily a bad thing. Her uncertainty comes from the trauma she has suffered recently but her hesitance comes from empathy, from thinking before speaking and considering how her words will be taken.)

Oliver glances over at the TV, which is replaying Superman’s words from six months ago.

_“...heard Mrs. Queen’s news announcement. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the Markov device until it had already activated. I learned later that there was a second device, already deactivated by the Green Arrow and a captain in the SCPD. So really, you have Mrs. Queen, the Green Arrow, and the brave officers of the SCPD to thank for...”_

Oliver tunes him out, turning back to Thea. He really isn’t at all sure about what he is about to do, but he’s seen how broken up she is at their mother’s betrayal, how she refused to visit for so long. He remembers her words, about how lies and secrets were what had made it all possible and her gratitude that Oliver hasn’t lied to her.

Except that Oliver’s been lying to her since the moment he came home. He knows telling her that is probably the quickest way to lose her. But to continue lying to her… Tommy hadn’t taken it well, and truthfully Oliver had never intended to tell him. He’d never intended to tell Thea either. But Tommy’s still around, still willing to call Oliver his friend. And Diggle and Felicity came back. And, and…

And Thea’s suffered enough. She deserves to know what had happened that night.

There’s no point in delaying, in dancing around words. The simplest way to tell her he has changed, the simplest way to explain that he can now kill with ease, that he has a burning need inside him to help others and make up for his sins, is to simply tell her about his other self. He could tell her about Yao Fai or Slade or Shado, about Hong Kong or Russia, but the truth is, telling her about the Arrow tells her all she needs to know. (And is all he can force himself to say.)

“I’m him,” he says, glancing between her and the television. “I’m… I’m the Green Arrow.” It sounds ridiculous, and it is – the Green Arrow – but that’s what the media’s taken to calling him. That’s what the _city’s_ taken to calling him.

Thea stares at him blankly. Whatever she was expecting him to say, that was not it. “What?”

“The vigilante. It’s me,” Oliver repeats, low and careful, watching for the snap of understanding, the onset of fear.

Thea straightens where she sits, almost seeming to lean back slightly. “You… That was you?”

Oliver doesn’t know which instance she’s talking about – the Undertaking, attacking their mother, or any of the other countless things he’s done – but he nods. “Yes.”

“That was how you knew how to get us out of there. You, you’ve killed people,” Thea says softly. “And you’ve … saved the whole city.”

It’s hard to tell which one she’s focusing on more. Oliver remains seated, keeps his body still, tries to present the fact that he’s not a threat. “I understand if you want me to leave,” he says, also quiet and calm even as his heart rages at him to do something. There’s nothing for him to do. It’s all up to Thea now. “But I won’t lie to you anymore, Thea.”

Thea stares for a moment longer. “You saved everyone,” she repeats.

Oliver shakes his head. He can never forget the harm he’s done, the look on Tommy’s face when he’d told him the truth about killing his father. That’s what stands out to him the most about those events – Malcom’s silky voice in ear, threatening his family (threatening Thea); the feeling of failure as he’d learned there was a second device; the feeling of relief as he’d seen Superman’s dive; and the pain in his heart as he’d told his best friend that he’d killed his father. “I killed Malcolm Merlyn,” he corrects. “Superman and Detective Lance saved the Glades.”

“Which they wouldn’t have done without you,” Thea’s voice grows in strength and this time she leans forward in her seat, towards him.

Oliver doesn’t know what to say to that – he hadn’t expected any support. Fear and hatred at worst, confusion and a lack of understanding at best. But not support.

But then Thea’s voice falters again. “You said… you said this is because of what happened to you on the island.”

It’s not quite a question, but it’s close enough. Oliver pauses for a moment, considers his sister and how she seems to be taking things. There is fear in her eyes, but he has a feeling that it is not fear of him but rather fear of what he is going to say.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he says, instead of continuing his story from earlier. “If you need time…”

She bristles. “I’m not some fragile damsel in distress! Just because we got kidnapped –” But she cuts herself off, faltering at the words, and Oliver knows she’s not as recovered as she’s pretending to be. Too much has happened to her in too short a time.

“It’s been six years since the _Gambit_ sank,” Oliver says, voice still low and careful. “And I still can’t –” A clap of thunder, the roar of the ocean. Sara’s screams and the shot ringing out as the bullet impacts his father’s brain. The smell of saltwater and gunpowder, the feel of the ocean heaving beneath him. Hunger pains in his gut and exhaustion in his limbs. He still can’t make the words come. There is no shame in her own hesitation.

“I knew,” she says plainly. “I mean, I always knew it wasn’t… but… but I’d hoped. That you were on some tropical beach somewhere, learning how to crack open coconuts and climb palm trees.” She looks almost embarrassed at the thought. “It was stupid of me.”

“You were just a kid,” Oliver counters almost instantly. “I dreamed about what you were doing too, sometimes, about how you were growing up.”

Thea snorts, derisive and self-deprecating. “Some disappointment I turned out to be, huh?”

A reckless drug addict, popping pills for the thrill of it and lashing out at anyone who got too close. But Oliver can only think of the way her eyes had lit up when she’d seen him for the first time in five years, the warmth of her arms as she’d thrown herself into him. He cannot deny her faults, but he can’t deny her _life_ either, the fact that she is alive and here and hasn’t run screaming from his secrets and his own faults.

“No,” he says, strong and firm in a voice that brooks no argument. “You’re…” not perfect, because she isn’t perfect – _he_ isn’t perfect – but… “you’re everything I came back for.”

Panic seizes Oliver for a moment after he speaks. In his haste to reassure her he’d said too much, revealed that it had been his choice to come back, that he could have come back earlier (that is one thing he doubts any of his family or friends would be able to forgive him for). But his slip is small and Thea doesn’t notice it.

Anyway, she seems more interested in deflecting the conversation from herself and refocusing on him. Or maybe she’s still processing what it means that he is the Arrow.

She shakes her head. “You know how many times I’ve wanted to thank the Green Arrow for what he’s done?” she asks. “Vertigo. Roy. _Mom._ ” And Oliver knows she’s not talking about the time he’d confronted Moira but what he’d done to stop the Undertaking.

Oliver gives her a small false smile, sad and disbelieving. “And you also told Roy to stay away from me,” he reminds her gently. “You don’t have to be okay with this Thea, I just… I didn’t want to be another person in your life who kept lying to you. Not anymore.” Oliver’s life is dangerous. He’s always accepted that he could die in the hood. But their kidnapping (and her close call in the Glades) have reminded him of Thea’s vulnerabilities too. If either one of them dies, he doesn’t want their story to end with these lies between them.

Thea pulls back at his words. “Because what you do is _dangerous_!” she proclaims strongly. “Not because…” she shakes her head. “What the Arrow does for Star City is amazing but, god Ollie! You could have died!”

Oliver knows that better than she does and his heart seems to settle at her passionate claim.

She settles down herself somewhat in her seat. “I… I can’t ask you to stop, can I?”

She already knows the answer to that.

Oliver shakes his head, finally stands. “Now that you know,” he says, careful, still careful, no matter how well Thea is taking it all, “there’s something you should see.”

* * *

It’s one thing to see him surge through the open door, shutting it behind him in a fluid movement full of power, and reopen the door to see him knocking another man to the ground, two others spread out on the floor around him, and to hear the words from his lips in the comfort of their living room. It’s another thing entirely to get visual proof that what Oliver is telling her is the truth.

It’s the middle of the afternoon on Sunday, so neither Felicity nor Diggle are in the foundry at the moment. But it’s not like there isn’t already enough for Thea to absorb as Oliver flips the switch and shows her his base of operations. The costume in its display case. The arrows carefully laid out and sharpened. The mat and exercise equipment. Felicity’s high-end computers.

Thea doesn’t see it, too busy absorbing everything she can about his alter ego, but Oliver’s eyes drift to the note still pinned to the wall, from what seems like so long ago. A simpler time, though really, things have been complicated since he’s come home. Since before then.

He tugs the piece of paper off the wall and shoves it in his pocket, resolving to do something about it. Felicity and Diggle had been so shocked to realize he’d once worked for ARGUS, a secret he’s kept from them despite their dealings with the shadowy organization, despite the fact that Diggle’s ex-wife is an ARGUS agent. And yet they hadn’t left. They hadn’t gotten angry. They’d agreed to wait until later to hear his explanation.

Oliver still has to think about what exactly to tell them, still has to fear their reaction, but maybe he’s not so worried about them leaving. They haven’t so much as complained once the past few weeks (though he’s seen Felicity bite back more than one impassioned response, and that isn’t right either, because he doesn’t want them to be afraid of his reaction).

Out of his thoughts and back in the present moment, Thea is running her finger over one of his arrows. He can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about how many people he’s killed with his bow, but that’s not what she asks when she speaks next.

“The… the men who…” she can’t say it anymore, but he knows what she’s asking. “Was that because of… of what you do?”

She doesn’t seem to be blaming him, only morbidly curious. If she’d really thought about it she’d realize the answer – the precautions their kidnappers had taken had been precautions for rich spoiled billionaire’s kids, not a highly trained assassin – but her brain’s still recovering, unwilling to focus on the details of that night, and anyway the most recent reveal has surely shaken her foundations.

He shakes his head. “I think they wanted us for the same reason that Tommy was kidnapped. To find out what we knew about our parent’s plans.” He’ll never really know now, unless Waller deigns to tell him. If it had just been him, he might have waited until they’d started questioning him to fight back. But he hadn’t been about to put Thea through that.

Maybe she’s not as shaken as he’d thought. Or maybe the mention of what Moira had done snaps through her muddled mind and lights anger’s flames within her, the way it always seems to. She snaps her head around and narrows her eyes at him.

“You’re investigating them. As… as the Green Arrow.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me,” Thea demands softly. She’s not backing down from what he is, but she’s not forcing herself into it either. She wants Oliver to want to tell her.

After everything he’s kept from her – everything he’s still keeping from her – it doesn’t feel right to keep these simple truths from her. Not when it involves her. (Sometimes, an explanation can be healing. Sometimes it isn’t, but Oliver feels it’s worth the risk.)

He pulls up Felicity’s files on the eleven men and opens the first one. “This is Harold Banko,” he says, pointing at the first image. “He was in charge of the group that took Tommy. His brother was a recently released convict who was killed by police the night of the miniquake.” He pulls up two more files. “Mark Rodgers and Anthony Martin. Both of them lost their jobs and their homes as a result of that night.” Another file. “Ronald Glover. Injured in the riots. When insurance wouldn’t pay he got angry, arrested for assault the day after he got released from the hospital. Charges were dropped but his job let him go and his wife left him and took the kids.” He pulls up the last file on the five men who’d kidnapped Tommy. “And Andres Putnam. His mother’s apartment was near the sight of the quake. A toppled bookcase broke both her legs. Putnam had to quit his job to take care of her and lost his own apartment as a result.”

“All of them lost something,” Oliver continues clearly, “and the six who took us have similar stories.” He doesn’t shy aware from the fact of their own kidnapping, but he watches Thea carefully at his words. Her gaze is locked onto the computer and she flinches softly without looking up.

“Our working theory is a revenge kidnapping. Our parents ruined their lives. They wanted to get even.” Whether or not their six captors were simply copying Tommy’s five, or were actually linked with them, is yet to be seen.

Still Thea stands motionless, gaze still boring into the picture of Andres Putnam on the computer screen. He does not look like the kind of man who would kidnap and torture someone, Oliver assumes, but even if Thea sees the picture that way, even if Oliver was once the man who would have seen it that way, his brain doesn’t work the same as everyone else’s anymore.

No longer does his focus settle on the boyish face or the slight grin. To Oliver, everyone is a potential threat, no matter their appearance. Maybe Thea is having trouble reconciling the faces in front of her with the violence she’d seen in front of her own face, but Oliver isn’t. Violence comes in all shapes and sizes.

After a moment she wrenches her view from the screen, not without some effort, and turns to meet Oliver’s watchful gaze.

“But you don’t believe that, do you?” she asks solidly, like it’s not really a question and she already knows the answer.

Oliver’d answered her question, but he’s not sure how much he wants to let her get involved with what he does in the foundry’s basement. Tommy had been exposed to enough danger just with Helena, and he hadn’t even been a part of the Arrow’s activities back then. “It’s possible our kidnappers were only motivated by Tommy’s kidnapping. Or maybe they were part of the first group and realized that with Diggle around they couldn’t get to him anymore, so they changed their targets.”

Thea’s gaze hardens. Somehow, she can still read him, if only partially. ( _Or maybe, by now_ , the sinister part of Oliver’s brain whispers to him, _she’s just used to the lies and half-truths._ )

“What do you really think happened?” she demands to know.

Oliver lets his gaze flicker up and down her unwavering form. He takes in his baby sister’s stance, no longer the girl he’d left behind or the reckless teenager he’d come back to. She’s an adult now, in every sense of the word. And he’s done lying to her.

“I think someone both hired groups,” he says plainly. “But we have no proof yet and no link between them.” He doesn’t tell her more. Right now, he doesn’t have any more. It’s just a theory, one that he and Felicity and Digg are still working on. And he’d said _we_ already without thinking, though Thea doesn’t seem to have caught that. (It’s not lying. She just doesn’t need to know.)

“Is that what you’re going to be doing then, working on getting proof?”

“Among other things,” Oliver answers honestly, if vaguely.

“That list of names that the news got a few months ago, and the –”

“Thea.” Oliver cuts his sister off before she can really get started, before she can ask all the questions that have been building in her mind since she’d learned the truth and still accepted him. (If she learns the whole truth, knows everything that he has done and everything that he is capable of, he doubts she will be so forgiving.)

Her mouth snaps shut at his tone. “What?” she asks. She’s irritated at being interrupted, at still being kept from the truth, especially because she has just started to get fired up by the idea of what he is capable of, what he has stopped, but their recent shared experience softens her tone (his recent shared secret softens her tone).

“There will be time for all that later. There’s extra security at the manor until we get some answers. You need sleep.”

“So do you,” she shoots back at him defensively.

Oliver ignores the truth of her statement. “Thea,” he repeats softly. Knowingly.

His sister’s defensives crumble. “I…” she shakes her head. “I can’t sleep. I keep reliving it over and over and… I just… I can’t…” She turns to look at him. “Is this what it was like for you, when you came home?” There’s a fragility to her words that makes Oliver think the truth just might break her.

Because the truth is both yes and no. Oliver’d had time to adjust, five years worth of nightmares. It’d been bad when he’d come home, and it’s still bad some nights. (Most nights actually, since Sara’s return and the fight in the foundry.) But at that point he’d also known the value of taking sleep when you could. He wouldn’t say that his sleep patterns are healthy by any means, and there are still days and nights when he forgets altogether, but every now and again he’ll force himself to lay down until he gets a few hours, if it’s been a while. (Oliver’s determined not to lie to Thea, but that’s not a truth she needs to hear.)

Thea seems determined not to sleep until she drops from exhaustion. It’s not healthy, and it’s not what he wants for her.

Though he’s still uncomfortable with the idea… “Would inviting Roy over help?” he asks, not answering the question.

Thea hesitates. “He… he doesn’t know, does he?”

“He doesn’t need to. Oliver Queen is nothing to him.”

Oliver can tell Thea considers arguing that statement but she ends up returning to their first topic. “Could you…?” she starts. “I mean… I know the manor’s safe…”

Oliver smiles softly at his younger sister, who has just now learned of the power and skill hiding behind his false exterior. He was originally planning on going out tonight but that can wait. For one night, Thea can take priority. “I’m sure we’ve got sleeping bags somewhere.”

Thea grins back at him, then, attempting to inject some humor into the situation, scoffs slightly. “Sleeping bags? This is the twenty-first century, Ollie. We’ve got air mattresses.”

Oliver lets himself chuckle.

* * *

“Queen’s back at home, like we thought. Both of them, actually.”

“And there’s still no record of Collins’ arrest?”

“None. And no bodies found either.”

“Our man in the SCPD?”

“I didn’t want to tell him too much, obviously, but so he’s not really sure. Said some suits came in, next thing he knew the investigation was closed. But he didn’t get an agency.”

“Does someone want to tell me what the hell happened? Collins and his men have apparently vanished without a trace – thanks possibly to government agents – and the Queens are safely at home acting like nothing happened!”

“The Green Arrow rescued Merlyn.”

“The Arrow rescued Merlyn by sending five men to the hospital. It was brutal and it was public, just like everything else he’s done. This… whatever this is, it’s subtle. It’s quiet and it’s under the radar.”

“And the Queens agreed to it. Both of them. They’ve kept quiet so far.”

“Exactly.”

“Except the Arrow’s killed before. In fact, the first time he killed was when he rescued Queen and Merlyn over a year ago, right after Queen got back.”

“There were no bodies this time. Arrow’s not exactly one for subtly.”

“How would we know if he was? Maybe he’s done this before, cleaned up a mess without anyone the wiser. While everyone’s staring at the emerald arrows sticking out of high-profile people, he’s out there digging graves while no one’s looking.”

“Doesn’t exactly strike me as his way of doing things. Besides, why would the government get involved with that?”

“He’s good though, maybe even good enough to hide those kind of activities.”

“If that was the case there’d be an increase in missing persons.”

“There _has_ been.”

“Only over the past month, and mostly with kids and druggies. The usual high flight risks. A fluke of statistics. Not the Arrow’s target demographic.”

“Are we sure that Queen isn’t the Arrow? He was brought in for questioning and the timing is awfully convenient. It would explain how he and his sister managed to get home without anyone being the wiser.”

“He was cleared of all charges.”

“Not to mention that the detective who filed those charges in the first place had a grudge against Queen. And that the Green Arrow has been sighted multiple times while Oliver Queen was present elsewhere.”

“Including the other night, when we still had Queen.”

“I’m still not hearing any answers.”

“…Moira Queen still has a lot of reach, even in prison.”

“You think she was protecting her children?”

“It’s possible. And while it doesn’t suit the Arrow’s methods, it certainly fits hers.”

“So she had someone watching her kids, someone who noticed when they went missing and acted accordingly. If that’s the case, we’ll never see Collins again.”

“Not that that’s much of a loss.”

“It’s a waste of yet another person willing to do what we ask!”

“We chose those men _because_ they’re expendable.”

“Back on topic, what about the bodyguard?”

“John Diggle? He’s guarding Merlyn now. It’s part of the reason we told Collins to act when he did.”

“No, I know that, just… didn’t any of you read his file.”

“I did. You’re talking about his wife, aren’t you?”

“Ex-wife.”

“What about her?”

“She works for ARGUS.”

“They’re not bad at disappearing people themselves.”

“Think the bodyguard would go that far for the Queens?”

“Diggle’s nothing special. Good service record and good at his job, but he’s not one of the elites. Maybe he knew he was out of his depth.”

“He’s a good man though, at his core. With men like that, the instinct to protect can run deep.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that we learned absolutely nothing from Collins’ fiasco, we have no idea what happened to Collins and his men, and we still have no idea what the Queens know.”

“…Why don’t we just ask Moira Queen?”

“We’ve discussed this. Putting a man in the confined environment of a prison is too noticeable.”

“I’m not suggesting we put a man in prison. I’m saying we get _her_ out.”

“’Moira Queen agrees to trial’. You’re saying we rig the jury.”

“Soon as she’s home we grab her instead of going after the younger Queens instead. Means we have to wait a bit, but…

“And if she’s the reason our earlier attempt failed?”

“Then we’ll know for sure. We just need to find another flake like Collins.”

“Shouldn’t be hard.”

“Perhaps we should be more subtle, this time. The Arrow decimated our first team, and whoever these government spooks are, they found the Queens in less than twenty-four hours. Nothing’s been linked back to us –”

“And it won’t be.”

“– but we should still exercise some caution.”

“…the Queens have a maid…”

“More than one. We could try that.”

“And maybe get someone from the Queen Consolidated board on our side.”

“It is good to see that you are all capable of coming up with reasonable solutions, given enough time. For now, we’ll work on getting Moira Queen home, where we have access to her. In the meantime, how is the attempt going to figure out which member of the press was given a copy of the List?”

* * *

* * *

_November 25, 2013, afternoon:_

Lunch is sort of Tommy’s ‘breakfast before leaving for work’, in a manner of speaking. By now, Thea is almost running Verdant, having taken over quite well in the aftermath of his… his kidnapping. But he hasn’t yet managed to shake the late-night hours, not helped in the slightest by his nightmares, so he tends to not fall asleep until the early morning hours and not wake until ten or eleven.

Given that, it is only after lunch that he tends to get to work on the clinic. With Marta’s advice he had placed offers on two buildings in the Glades – the one on Henry Street, not far from Verdant, that is his top choice, and another near the southern edge of the Glades which has a good parking lot and had been a dentist’s office once, so has the design for separate doctor’s offices, but is smaller than he wants. Now it is just a waiting game, in terms of real estate, but there is still plenty for him to do: put out feelers for investors, employees, equipment… There are licenses he has to obtain and research he has to do into the sort of audits and whatnot that would have to be performed in order to have the certifications he wants.

With his dishes in the dishwasher, Tommy starts the process of logging in to his laptop and spreading his papers over the kitchen table. Then his phone rings. Tommy glances at the screen. Oliver.

He picks it up with ease, still conflicted about keeping his best friend’s secrets from his girlfriend but pleased with the renewal in their friendship. Every time the topic comes up Tommy makes sure that he tells Oliver that he doesn’t have a problem with his activities as the Arrow – he just wants nothing to do with it, just doesn’t want any more secrets to keep.

“What’s up?” he asks, knowing that Oliver will take it as an invitation to discuss anything _but_ the Arrow.

“Keeping busy,” Oliver responds, a note of frustration in his voice that Tommy has learned comes from only one thing: dealing with Queen Consolidated’s board.

“Ugh,” he sympathizes. He’s so grateful he’d sold his stake in Merlyn Global, even if his father hadn’t been a mass murderer. Not that he’s about to say that. He hasn’t spoken about Malcolm to anyone in months and even now the thought of his father makes his mind cringe back. “Need a break?” he asks instead.

“Sort of. I was actually calling to talk about Thanksgiving plans.”

This time Tommy actually cringes. With all that had been going on, and the fact that Oliver hadn’t yet mentioned the holiday, he hadn’t expected his friend to offer. “Laurel and her dad actually, sort of have their own traditions,” he says reluctantly. “And, I mean, normally I’d take you up on your offer, but…”

“But Quentin’s not the biggest fan of me,” Oliver finishes for him, far easier than Tommy thought the conversation would go. (But then, he’s only just started to get an inkling of how well Oliver can hide his emotions, even from his best friend. Is Oliver upset? He wishes he knew. He wants to know. It’d be easier for him to tell, if they were face to face.) “No worries,” Oliver continues. “I wasn’t planning anything big anyway, just that, as far as I know Roy’s never really had much of a Thanksgiving and he’s a still a little reluctant about spending time in the manor.”

“Oliver…”

“It’s really not a big deal, Tommy,” Oliver cuts him off firmly. “Walter’s coming and I think Thea and Roy invited another friend as well. If you really feel that bad about it, Thea and I wouldn’t say no to a dinner with you and Laurel, maybe next week?”

“I’ll talk to her about it,” Tommy promises, relieved by his friend’s insistence. He doesn’t want Oliver to think he’s intentionally avoiding him. Not again. (He wishes desperately that he was still confident in his ability to read Oliver. Even when he’d thought the man a monster – and he still cringes at those memories – he’d never doubted his ability to know what Oliver was feeling. Looking back, that was where he’d gone wrong.)

They chat for a little while longer – Oliver’s troubles with Queen Consolidated and Stellmoor International and the CEO’s death; Tommy’s work towards opening a functioning clinic; Thea’s impeccable management of Verdant – but Oliver really had just called about Thanksgiving, and they both have things to do, so the conversation doesn’t last too long.

Still, Tommy’s grateful they can just _talk_ , without any hesitation between them.

Oliver’s been home over a year now, and despite his nightmares and his lack of willingness to even think of his father and his desire not to keep secrets from Laurel, Tommy feels like he’s finally gotten his best friend back. At the very least, he feels like he knows how to act around Oliver again.

It’s a good feeling.

* * *

* * *

_November 25, 2013, evening:_

After the attack in the Glades – and after Thea’s recent interest in doing something worthwhile with her life, separate but similar to what the Green Arrow does – Sin had finally agreed to Thea’s offer of a job at Verdant.

She works part time, coming in on odd nights, seemingly at random in an effort to assure everyone (including herself) that it’s not charity and that she doesn’t really care about it, but she does work. And most of the time, when she does, she goes in at the same time as Roy, showing up at his house and inserting herself into the pickup he typically borrows from his neighbor without even asking. (Not that Roy would say no, if she did ask.)

She’s at his house now, before both of their shifts start, listening to him talk about the Green Arrow, and about asking the hero to train him.

“Have you spoken about this to your girlfriend?”

Roy’s eyes move sideways, avoiding Sin’s gaze. It’s answer enough.

Sin crosses her arms and frowns at him. “Really, Abercrombie? Thought you weren’t scared of anything.”

“I’m not _scared_ of her,” Roy shoots back instantly. He’s _not_. Rather, he’s scared that he can’t protect her. And he knows what Thea will say the second she finds out he asked the Green Arrow to train him because of what happened: that it wasn’t his fault. That there was nothing he could have done. That that kind of recklessness will only get him killed.

He knows this because she’s told him it already. Multiple times.

But the Green Arrow wouldn’t have lost against three rent-a-thugs from the Glades. If he trains Roy, helps him to become capable of what he can do… It’s not just about being a better man anymore, not just about helping the people of the Glades. It’s about Thea.

“Then just tell her that maybe if you had been a better fighter you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Familiar guilt slams into Roy at full speed. He knows Sin doesn’t mean it like that – she’s not blaming him, just suggesting a way for him to get Thea to agree with him – but his failure still weighs heavily on him.

Thea had been kidnapped – and there is a cast around his arm – because he hadn’t been strong enough, hadn’t been quick enough, to fight back. And when he’d called the Green Arrow, there’d been no answer. If the hero hadn’t already been on the case…

It doesn’t bear thinking about. (As it is, some details of that night still confuse him: the lack of follow up from police; the lack of any sort of inkling about what had happened before John Diggle had shown up at his house, told him to get in the car, and taken her to Queen Manor where Thea and Oliver had been waiting for him, explaining what had happened to them both. He trusts Green Arrow, trusts Thea, but it’s… very different than what had happened when Tommy Merlyn had been kidnapped.)

“You did all you could, Roy,” Sin cuts through his self-flagellation and uncertainty knowingly. “I’m just saying, if you want the Princess to agree with you…”

“No, I know,” Roy says quickly, shaken from his thoughts. “I know what you meant, I just…”

“You’re just being a wuss. Woman up and just tell her. She’s been on the vigilante kick too you know.”

If her recent experience hasn’t scared her off from the ideas the three of them had been floating around haphazardly.

Then again, Roy’s never known Thea to be scared of anything except losing the people she cares about. And while she’s avoiding talking about that night entirely – including talking about the Green Arrow – she _was_ rescued by the man. (He’s seen her be scared in the _moment_ of danger, but after the fact Thea is rarely anything but angry.)

“I will,” Roy decides, saying the words aloud more for his own benefit than Sin’s. “Soon as this comes off.” He gestures with his cast, knowing he’s delaying again – but then, it’s not like the Green Arrow will agree to train him while he’s still wearing it.

* * *

So much is now clear about her brother: about the way he’s been acting since he’s come home, about his flakiness, about his hesitation and sullenness and even the few injuries he’s let the world see. But something things are still fuzzy in Thea’s mind. Oliver, as the Green Arrow, had seen the destruction their mother had planned and forgiven her for it. And yet he’d killed Malcolm Merlyn, his best friend’s father, for the same plot.

Thea knows that’s not quite right, that’s not telling the whole story (Malcolm was the Dark Archer, deadly and dangerous, and their mother backed out at the end while Malcolm, apparently, didn’t) but it’s still… She doesn’t like to think about the fact of her brother killing, much less killing Tommy’s father, but that’s not what bothers her. It’s the forgiveness that bothers her. Does he know something she doesn’t about their mother? Thea’s met with her, has been willing to work past it, but she’s not sure she forgives her mother. Not yet. (Moira Queen doesn’t know about their kidnapping, but they’ve managed to talk her into going to trial. That helps, but only so much.)

And then there’s the fact that the Green Arrow has been seen in one location when she knows for sure that Oliver was somewhere else. The night Detective Lance had put Oliver under house arrest. The night they’d been kidnapped, even, because Thea had even turned to Sin for information and heard through rumors that the Green Arrow had been seen questioning people that night. Oliver can’t be working alone, but he’d said nothing about partners when he’d told her the truth and showed her his base.

And what about Roy? How much does he know? No, wait, Oliver had said he didn’t know. But then what about Diggle, Oliver’s bodyguard who goes practically everywhere with him and is now guarding Tommy? Or Tommy himself, or Laurel? Who in Oliver’s life already knows the truth? Even if Oliver hadn’t said he was still in the dark, she couldn’t see Roy as already knowing, not with the way he talks about Oliver, but the others… How could Diggle not know? Was this why he’d quit for a time, all those months ago? Had he found out that early after Oliver’s return home? And Laurel with her secrets, with her connection to the Green Arrow, does she know it’s Oliver under the hood?

She’d been calling Oliver separately from the Green Arrow on the night of Oliver’s kidnapping, but she’d also been telling Oliver that she didn’t need his help. Had she been giving him an excuse to stay away? Thea’s not sure she knows Laurel well enough to judge, despite their relatively recent friendship.

Tommy… If he does know, maybe that would explain his random arguments with Oliver neither of them have ever been willing to explain. He’d been the one to tell her that Verdant’s basement door was broken, and that there was no point in ever going down there. Had he been parroting an excuse Oliver had given him, or does he know the truth?

Thea can’t say, about any of them, but the questions pile up inside of her. And it’s not just questions about the present, about the Green Arrow and his actions in Star City. She also has a thousand questions about his past. About the island, about the bow and arrows, about the scars, about the secret government agents who’d arrested their kidnappers, about the green hood. She knows now for certain that Oliver’s reluctance to talk about those five years is real – even with the truth out between them he’d struggled to say the words – but that doesn’t stop her curiosity.

She won’t ask him these questions any more than she wants to talk about the terror of hearing Roy’s wrist snap, of being shoved in a dark trunk for hours and hours without a clue of what was happening and where she was going. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to know.

And it doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to help. Oliver is a _hero_. He’s saved so many lives. He’d rescued Walter. He’d saved Roy.

He’s saved her life, more than once. (She’s tired of needing to be saved. She’s tired of feeling _helpless_.)

Thea’s seeing her brother in a new light now, wondering how she missed it before but knowing that he’d intended for her to not see it. Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow. So much makes sense now. Including Thea’s renewed commitment to do something _good_ with her life, to help people the way Oliver is.

Knowing what he does, Thea knows she’s not going to turn back now, no matter that Oliver wants to give her time to think about things.

_She’s tired of feeling helpless._ It’s time she does something about that.

* * *

Truthfully, Oliver’s not sure if he’s dreading the coming conversation or not. Felicity and Diggle both had taken his request for time a few nights ago so well, though they must be itching to know exactly what happened. But how will they take knowing that Thea knows the truth? How will they take the fact that he hid his association with ARGUS from them, despite the fact that they’ve worked with (around, mostly) the shadowy government agency before?

There’s no chance he can get out of the conversation either, even if he’d wanted to. Felicity and Digg have both been coming to the foundry pretty early lately and are already there when Oliver arrives.

With the chaos of their uncertainty around each other, Tommy’s kidnapping, and then Oliver and Thea’s own kidnapping, it feels like they haven’t done much in the month of November. He’d stopped the gunrunners in the Glades after Tommy’s kidnapping, buoyed up by rage and a need for violence, but against organized crime they’ve done practically nothing and against the systemic corruption they’ve done little as well. Diggle’s sorted a lot of audio files and three Listers have been taken to task for their actions so far, but they haven’t done much to target new ones or plant new bugs.

There’s a lot to do and Thea now knows the truth, and they have an enemy to target. With almost eight solid hours of sleep the past night, Oliver’s ready to do it.

But first he has to have a conversation, and he knows it. This is why they left, his decisions and secrets. And he doesn’t need to give them a reason to leave again.

He reaches the bottom stair, staring into their expectant faces.

“I told Thea the truth,” Oliver says, watching his two friends’ cautiously, because that is so much easier to say than delving into his past.

“What?!” Diggle’s exclamation isn’t disapproving, just startled – this is not the topic that he thought Oliver would start with, no doubt.

“I didn’t tell her about either of you,” Oliver clarifies quickly regardless.

Diggle takes a step toward him, glancing at Felicity. “Oliver, I don’t think that either of us were worried about that.”

Felicity stands before Diggle can say any more, excitement shining through her. “That’s awesome Oliver!” she exclaims. “Unless…” her excitement falters somewhat. “How did she take it?”

Oliver takes a moment to reevaluate Thea’s reaction. “She didn’t freak out,” he admits.

“Well that’s good?” Felicity says optimistically, though it sounds more like a question.

“She needs time to process things,” Oliver admits. He’s not sure how she’ll take it, in the end. Not sure if he regrets telling her yet. Abruptly, he changes the topic. “I know you have questions for me, though.”

Felicity starts at the topic change, exchanging glances with Diggle, but after a brief moment the both of them nod at each other. Diggle is the one to step forward and speak first.

_They’ve rehearsed this_ , Oliver thinks to himself, _planned out what they’re going to say._ Maybe that’s better. Maybe that’ll reduce the possibility of conflict.

“Look, Oliver,” Diggle starts, nice and slow and gentle. (It would be irritating if Oliver didn’t know he deserved it), “we’re not… we’re not blaming you for anything. Just… we’ve worked with ARGUS before and you… You’ve never –”

Oliver shakes his head before Digg can stumble through any more words. “It has nothing to do with our earlier encounters. I… My second year on the island, some criminals came ashore looking for something that had been left there by Japanese soldiers in World War II.” Vastly oversimplifying things, but it’s close enough to the truth. And Oliver gets the words out well enough, without stumbling over them too much. He’s rehearsed this too, knows what he’s going to say. “ARGUS had an eye on them.” (Actually, he was never really sure if ARGUS had been watching Ivo, or simply watching Lian Yu after Fyers’ failed assassination – or before, even. Waller had never told him. He’d never bothered to ask, knowing he could never verify the truth of whatever she decided to tell him.) “As a result they… found me.”

Dare he say more? Should he mention his year in Hong Kong, being pressed into service?

“They were… interested, in what I was capable of,” he ends up saying through half-gritted teeth, glancing away from his friends, fingers twitching at his side, muscles tight. (But Felicity and Digg deserve to know this much, already know so much about what he’d gone through, out of everyone.) “It wasn’t the kind of offer I could say no to.”

There is a moment of stunned silence at his final proclamation, a silence that Oliver doesn’t want to linger on. But… he supposes his explanation does not account for everything they might want to know. Can he tell them about Waller’s hold on him? About learning to torture for her? About reaching a point where he worked for her (mostly) willingly? About their final, mostly-amicable parting of ways? He’d just told them that he was employed – in a manner of speaking – by ARGUS. Surely he should tell them that he got out of it?

But he can’t. He can’t force any more words from his lips, is trying to ignore the feeling of General Shrieve’s blood on his hands, of Akio’s death, the feeling of being trapped, leashed, tied down by the threat of the Yamashiro’s deaths.

Felicity and Digg are also silent, whether out of shock or because they are waiting for Oliver’s next words, but whatever feelings he has on the kind of information he owes them, Oliver cannot say anything more tonight.

“You got anything for me?” he asks abruptly.

Both Felicity and Digg start at this change of topic, exchanging glances yet again, but neither of them presses any further. Instead Felicity only spins and takes her seat again, returning to her computer screens. “I’m sure there’ll be something by the time you put your suit on,” she says, pulling up the police frequencies.

Oliver nods and goes to change. He could use a good distraction.

* * *

Before he leaves, Diggle stops Oliver with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Thank you,” he says, low and sincere and grateful. “For telling us about ARGUS.” He means it, that much is abundantly clear.

“And I’m sure Thea will be fine,” Felicity adds from the background, pitching her voice to be reassuring. “It didn’t take long for you to convince me, and I didn’t even know you.”

Something warm settles in Oliver’s gut even as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips under his hood and face paint. He can’t… There are no words within him, but he gives a firm not at their thanks before he leaves.

There are no more questions that night, only solid assistance. In response, Oliver calls it a night early and spars with Digg when he gets back.

Maybe this will work out after all. Maybe they aren’t that far off from the easy thing they had before.

(Digg and Felicity probably had a talk between themselves, while he’d been in the bathroom changing, while he’d been out in the field working, but if this is the outcome of such a conversation, he can live with that.)

* * *

* * *

_November 27, 2018, before sunset:_

Thanksgiving is tomorrow. Oliver knows this, knows his plan to ask Felicity and Diggle to join him at the manor is very last minute, but he doesn’t think they have plans anyway. Felicity’s mother is in Las Vegas, which is all he knows about the woman. He’s never heard Diggle mention his parents, not beyond vague mentions that don’t really tell Oliver where they are or if they’re even still alive, but he does know that Andy and Carly will be spending this Thanksgiving with Carly’s family, thanks to an offhand mention one night.

But all of Oliver’s Thanksgiving plans are last minute, given how distracted he’s been lately and how little attention he’s paid to Oliver Queen’s life. And he wants to put forth the effort. He doesn’t want to avoid asking them simply because of the lateness of his decision. No more excuses. (And he’s not asking them because Tommy said no either. He’s asking because he genuinely would enjoy their company. Because he wants to trust them again. One month apart can’t erase all the good they’ve done together.)

This time, tonight, Oliver specifically texts both of his partners – friends – and asks them to come early. He still gets to the foundry before them, with things he wants to do before they arrive, but they respond to his text by arriving as the sun nears the horizon, with still enough light outside to easily see by. Both of them stop and blink and take a second look around as they reach the bottom of the stairs together.

“What’s this?” Felicity’s eyes are on the extra chair tucked to the side, on the plush carpet rug now under the cot in the corner. (It’s mainly his, but Felicity and Diggle work days as well as nights most nights and have been known to catch a nap or two on a slow night or a long weekend.) What neither of them _can_ see is the upgrade Oliver had given to the bathroom.

“I couldn’t do anything about the hot tub…” Oliver responds, with an amused quirk of his lips. Some of the items on their ‘improvement list’ were written there for amusement, but the chair, the rug, the bathroom that doesn’t look half-finished… These things were easy enough for Oliver to take care of.

Felicity and Diggle take uncertain steps forward before their expressions seem to simultaneously solidify into understanding.

“Oliver…” Digg starts.

There’s _too_ much understanding in his voice for Oliver to handle. He doesn’t want to talk about it, he just wants them to know what he means by it. (Maybe that’s the problem, their lack of communication, but that doesn’t change Oliver’s discomfort with the gentleness of Diggle’s tone.)

Instead of responding he pulls another object out of his bag and sets it on the table. This one, more than any of the others, is specifically for Felicity.

“There’s no window, but, I thought, with how much time you spend here…”

She blinks at the Hanukkiah on the table, then grins. “Wow, I didn’t even… I mean, obviously I’ve already told you guys I’m Jewish, I mean, I certainly talk enough – not that I’m saying I talk too much, though I do tend to babble, and… I’m doing it right now.” Her grin turns sheepish but still grateful. “Thank you, Oliver,” she continues plainly. “I actually don’t have one at my apartment because of how little time I spend there, though I did mean to go to synagogue, since I haven’t been lately, and…”

“Felicity. It’s probably almost sunset.” This time Diggle is the one to interrupt her, though he hadn’t known about Oliver’s idea beforehand. (So, Oliver isn’t the only one who’s been doing some reading about Hanukkah.)

Felicity stills her babbling, smiling warmly at the both of them, and takes the lighter Oliver hands her. With great ceremony she lights the center candle, then uses it to light the first. She mumbles under her breath as she does so, Hebrew words that she clearly doesn’t expect them to follow along to. At the end of it, candlelight twinkles gently in the artificially lit foundry.

“Thea and I are hosting Thanksgiving tomorrow,” Oliver says softly into the silence. “It’s not much. Walter’s coming, and Roy and another friend of theirs, but if you guys aren’t busy…” It’s an open invitation without a need for a commitment, an offer without a question, but it doesn’t take either of them long to agree.

* * *

* * *

_November 28, 2013, afternoon:_

The Queen manor is… Well, it’s exactly what Sin expected it to be. Enormous. Opulent. It’s a huge stone mansion on wide, open grounds surrounded by forest without another building in sight (beyond the massive shed (garage? Maid’s house?) behind the manor and the guest quarters off to the side). The inside is no less impressive, and no less nauseating. Glittering chandeliers, pointless paintings that no doubt cost tens of thousands of dollars, gleaming and polished wooden floorboards, a double staircase in the foyer, a dining room that could almost fit Roy’s entire house.

It’s almost too much. But Thea’s wearing a simple blouse, Oliver Queen (billionaire, playboy, temporary CEO of Queen Consolidated, former castaway, formerly dead) is wearing a casual sweater, and they’re both wearing jeans, even if their outfits are probably as outrageously expensive as the rest of the things they own. Still, Sin’s uncomfortable, but she’s adjusting. And Roy’s wearing the same red hoodie he always wears, even if paired with his nicest pants and shoes.

It’s fancy but neither of the Queens seem to be making an effort to see that it stays that way. Queen – the elder – had greeted her with a simple handshake and a comment about how much he’d heard about her from Thea, with no hint of disdain about her looks or whatever the princess had told him. Walter Steele, Thea’s ex-stepfather (and isn’t that a complicated relationship, though it’s far better than what Sin has with her own current stepfather) wears a simple dark blue sweater and gray pants, looking every inch a model, but he too greets her with a warm smile and a pleased handshake, proclaiming himself eager to meet any friend of Thea’s.

The other two guests – a Felicity Smoak, IT woman from Queen Consolidated, and John Diggle, Queen’s bodyguard – are a bit simpler. There’s no doubt they’ve dressed up, but Sin’s pretty sure she _might_ actually be able to afford what they’re wearing. Someday. When she manages to start saving some of the money she’s now earning at Verdant. Besides, Smoak babbles about the multiple forks for like, five minutes, so Sin’s pretty sure she’s not the only one out of her depth (excepting Abercrombie, of course).

As the night passes and the hours fade by, Sin’s stiffness fades too. She’s not comfortable in the Queen manor – how could she be, surrounded by such wealth? – but the company… The company is good and friendly. Two children of billionaires, only now growing into adults (Sin doesn’t care much for people like the Queens, never had in the past either, but even she’s aware of the sort of life Oliver Queen had lived before he’d come back from the dead). Two street kids from the Glades, who haven’t actually been kids in a long time. A man who – from the sound of him – must have come from money, but has never stopped working for it. An ex-solider unable to give up his habit of protecting people. And a frazzled, babbling IT genius. All at the same table.

And all, though Sin can’t believe she’s saying this, enjoying each other’s company.

She sticks close to Thea and Roy most of the night, but it’s hard to avoid people sitting at the same table as you. Once or twice, Felicity _does_ make her laugh, though perhaps not every time is on purpose. Once or twice, a kind word from Steele coaxes a small smile from her. Even Diggle’s comments make her grin, when Queen gently needles him for using the wrong fork. (The seating arrangements go like this: a long table with ten seats, polished gleaming wood, no doubt of the most expensive kind. Walter takes the seat on her far left, then Thea, then Roy, then Sin. Smoak sits across from her, Diggle across from Roy. The siblings are face to face. The seats at the head of the table, and the foot, remain empty.)

It’s exactly what Sin had expected from Thanksgiving at Queen manor, and nothing like what she’d thought the night would be at all. Somehow though, the oxymoron makes sense.

When Sin leaves for the night she has no plans to return anytime soon – or talk to Steele, Diggle, Smoak, or the elder Queen again in the near future – but she doesn’t regret coming. She’s actually kinda glad she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 25: Analysis, should be up December 3rd. It's a long one, and it'll be followed quickly by successive chapters, as it contains the crossover with Barry Allen.


	25. Analysis

_December 3, 2013, evening:_

Contrary to all of Felicity’s fears, her life is almost starting to return to normal. Her normal, at least – the normal she’d settled into for the first time back in June, of staying up late and hanging out with Oliver and John and sometimes Tommy and catching criminals.

As November fades into December, so too does the tension seem to drain out of the Arrow Cave. The three of them are clicking like a functioning unit again. Tommy’d even stopped by for a few hours last Saturday night, when he’d finally come into Verdant for the first time since his kidnapping.

It’s different – the lair is a bit more colorful, a bit more… friendly, thanks to Oliver’s modifications – but Felicity thinks it _should_ be different. None of them are the same people they once were. Even Oliver’s changed over the last few months.

It’s a good thing that things are back to normal though (mostly), because there’s _a lot_ of stuff to do. They’d put the Bertinelli investigation on hold for practically the entire month of November and no doubt the Family (and yes, Felicity does capitalize that in her mind) has taken advantage of the eased scrutiny. There’s still all the Listers, of course. There’s a new black-market smuggler, dealing in stolen art, making waves that they’ve heard a few rumors about. The mayor of Lyonsville, a suburb city that butts up against Star City’s southern border, had a heart attack three weeks back and one of the new candidates for the position is so obviously corrupt. (It’s not _technically_ Star City, and Oliver isn’t about to go patrolling the streets of the suburbs, but the candidate might as well be a Lister given how corrupt he is, and he’ll hurt a lot of people if he gets elected, so…)

And on top of all that, and more, Oliver’s juggling his relationships as well. Tommy’s close enough to him, and busy dealing with his clinic, but he doesn’t want to know anything more about the Green Arrow. _Thea_ knows the truth now, and she’d taken it well apparently (Oliver’s trying to give her time) but Roy doesn’t know even as he continues to feed them information. Felicity can’t imagine that going well. Laurel still doesn’t know either, but she’s currently fighting for a lawsuit against a corrupt doctor on the List. Moira Queen, meanwhile, has agreed to go to trial, to start sometime in mid to late December.

And if all _that_ wasn’t enough, there’s Queen Consolidated to worry about. They’re still searching for a CEO, but Stellmoor International is persistent. Persistent enough to get a seat on a board. They’d been told about the offer a few weeks ago, and had finally named their representative: Isabel Rochev, vice president of acquisitions. Clearly they’re still hoping to get a hold of the company. Even worse: Rochev is on the List.

All of that is why, when Felicity enters the lair to see Oliver at the computers, and he turns to face her with a small frown on his face, she has to tell her stomach not to plummet. Just because he’s _frowning_ doesn’t mean something bad happened.

“What?” she asks quickly.

“I was going over police reports earlier and I found a new program,” Oliver asks her without actually asking, voicing a statement that he expects her to respond to.

Felicity relaxes. _See,_ she tells herself, _nothing wrong._

She doesn’t have any problem answering his not-really-a-question. “Oh, yeah, that. I was going to tell you and Digg about it when I finished with it. It’s, uh, it’s a new algorithm, sorting 911 calls and police reports together.” She pauses, remembering what had prompted the new program and softening her tone slightly. However much he pretends to be fine, the memories she’s about to bring up can’t be pleasant for Oliver. When she speaks again, it’s slower than her usual words as she forces herself not to ramble. “I got the idea after Thea, y’know…” she says uncomfortably, trailing off before mustering herself again. “I want to be alerted when there’s something like that that happens. Kidnappings, mostly.”

“We’re not the police, Felicity,” Oliver counters firmly, as though it’s not up for debate.

She glances over at Digg, hovering in the background. It finally feels like they’re starting to be on solid ground again, finally feels like Oliver might be done trying to push them away for a while. But there haven’t been any arguments over the past few weeks and Felicity’s somewhat hesitant to start one, if only because she doesn’t want the tension to return to the foundry, doesn’t want Oliver to think that she’ll leave the team again because of it.

But she’s not that hesitant. And they have been getting better.

“I know that,” she shoots back. “And I know that we’re not detectives, and we’re not here to solve crimes. We’re trying to save the city by getting to the root of the problem, not go after the symptoms.” She’s certainly heard Oliver say so more than once. “We don’t have the resources and we don’t have the time to help everyone in this city who gets hurt by someone else. It sucks, but I get it.” And she does, she really does. They cannot be everywhere at once and she knows that what they do will never be enough, but it’s enough for three people. She knows they’re doing their bests. (She thinks they can be doing more.) “I’m not asking us to try and start solving murders or assaults or B&E’s or, or… or the thousand other crimes that happen, because there are a _lot_ of crimes that happen in the Glades, and I mean…” but she’s getting off track again.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Felicity continues, returning to her original topic, “is that I’ve looked up the statistics. Most kidnappings – abductions – in the US are just custody disputes. And maybe we can’t track down every missing person. But… calls like the one Roy was able to give about Thea, people in trouble _at that moment_ – can’t we do something about that?”

Silence falls for a second, not awkward and tense but thoughtful, like Oliver’s running through the calculations in his mind, trying to figure out the logistics, determine how much time it will take away from what he’s already doing.

“How can we not do something about that?” Felicity finds herself saying. She’d thought she’d been done with her speech but the words force themselves from her mouth unbidden, gentle and soft and utterly unstoppable.

(She hadn’t seen the report on Thea’s kidnapping until she’d realized Oliver had been taken. How many other kidnappings, how many other people taken, has she ignored? Even one is too many.)

“You responded to the bombings,” Digg comments thoughtfully. He seems too lost in thought, too focused on considering what Felicity is saying and comparing it to what they’ve done before, to realize that the aftermath of the bombings – Oliver’s decision regarding Alexa Lane – had been part of what had shattered their team.

But Oliver doesn’t tense at the reminder. “I did,” he replies calmly instead, clearly still thinking. His eyes refocus on Felicity’s, bright and clear and piercing and– No. Felicity’s thoughts are not going there. “We start small,” he tells her. “Violent crimes where someone’s still in danger.”

“Kidnappings and bombings, got it,” Felicity says. Oliver’s tone is urging caution and restraint but she can’t hold back her grin. She still gets surprised sometimes by how good it feels to do _good_. To help people. She’s always had something of a hacktivist’s heart in her, even if she’s mostly stayed away from the big stuff since her college days, but this… this is different.

And she loves every bit of it.

* * *

* * *

_December 4, 2013, afternoon:_

As acting CEO, Oliver doesn’t actually have that much to do. His position is more of a temporary one as they once again begin the process of selecting another and the COO – Wilfred Rankin – handles many of his duties. But he’s started showing up more afternoons than not at the office, working with Rankin and the board to keep Queen Consolidated moving forward. It takes time away from his activities as the Arrow but Oliver’s finally back in the mindset where he remembers that keeping up appearances is important.

After Carlin’s sudden and unexpected death – thankfully a complete accident; his car had been in top condition and so had the other driver’s car been, and it hadn’t been Carlin’s fault – Queen Co. had taken another dip in the stock market that they still haven’t recovered from. Quite frankly, though Oliver’s no expert, it doesn’t look like they _will_ recover from it, at least not anytime soon. They need a permanent CEO, one willing to stick around for a long time.

But they don’t have one and the best that Oliver can do for the company is to show up often and be seen actively working and helping the company remain steady. So, when news comes of a robbery at one of their industrial warehouses, he moves to gather up Queen Consolidated’s head of security – a man vetted by both him and Digg months ago, when positions had shifted quite a bit after the Undertaking – and Felicity – who had recently been promoted to head of her department in IT (though, if Oliver had had more pull with the company – had been able to exercise more of his pull in the company without drawing anyone’s suspicions – he would have made her head of IT entirely).

(Diggle, meanwhile, is still watching Tommy, and will continue to do so for at least until the new year, or until they get some answers, if Oliver gets his way.)

William Rowley does not seem pleased to see him when Oliver shows up with Felicity already at his side. He’s ex-military and no-nonsense, but the people under him had been the ones to suggest his promotion after the last head of security’s forced early retirement. Oliver takes that to mean that he’s good with people, he just doesn’t like Oliver.

He can understand that, and accept that, and work with it. So long as Rowley does his job – and he seems like the kind of man who always does – Oliver can handle a little disdain.

“Mr. Rowley,” he greets the man courteously, with only the barest hint of arrogance beneath his tone. (He needs to keep up his persona, but he also needs Rowley’s help. No need to go overboard too much.) “This is Felicity Smoak, from our IT department. She’s helped me stay up to date with the latest technology and, given the contents of the warehouse in question –” because Rowley, as head of security, already knows about the theft “– I thought it best that she tag along.” All true, technically speaking.

Rowley’s mouth thins ever so slightly but he nods in agreement and holds out a hand for Felicity. “Ms. Smoak. Nice to meet you.” Then he turns to Oliver. With the pleasantries done he jumps straight to business, talking as they leave the lobby together and enter the car waiting for them.

Though Oliver already knows most of the details – thanks to Felicity’s access to SCPD resources and information – he listens with a keen ear as Rowley details the situation to his boss and doesn’t fail to note the man settling into his seat somewhat as he realizes Oliver is actually paying attention.

At the warehouse the police have things well in hand and Oliver, Felicity, and Rowley quickly take over for the company representative already present, making their way to the detective in charge of the investigation.

Detective Andre Blair is a towering presence even taller than Oliver’s own six-foot one. He’s strong and solid and, from the research Oliver’s done on him, incorruptible. He’s one of the officers still committed to arresting the Arrow on sight, but he’s taken evidence from the Arrow too and has been willing to use it to bring down criminals, so long as he can prove it wasn’t planted.

Oliver, after all the research he’s done, doesn’t trust many members of the SCPD. Mostly, actually, it’s only Lance and Hwang he trusts. But Blair… there’s not much about him to dislike and Oliver hasn’t really seen any reason not to trust him besides his own paranoia. He wouldn’t say Blair was the smartest detective but he’s a hard worker. If the case can be solved, Blair will see it done. It’s a good sign that he’s on the case. (It’s also probably a sign of the captain sucking up to some of the richest people in Star City, but Oliver can ignore that until it becomes relevant.)

They meet, they exchange handshakes and names, and if Blair thinks ill of Oliver he doesn’t let it show on his face. Rowley and Blair start to discuss the events of the previous night.

“I heard you were only able to get one of the culprits on camera,” Rowley says.

Blair nods, waving over a tech and showing them the video. “We suspect the rest of his crew came in after he destroyed the camera.” He moves to say something more, to continue their discussion, but a young voice, high and eager, interrupts them.

“Actually it was only one guy.” One of the men Oliver had taken for a tech steps forward. There’s nothing visibly identifying him as police but he wouldn’t have gotten onto the crime scene if he wasn’t and it isn’t as if Oliver has memorized all employees of the SCPD (mostly just the detectives and the unis who patrol the Glades).

Rowley looks him over carefully, evaluating the new source of information in much the way he’s doing, Oliver suspects. (Young and nervous, but confident in his own words. Anxious to be around Oliver Queen, anxious because he’s new to the job, or anxious because he doesn’t think his explanation will be taken well? It’s too early to tell but Oliver gets the feeling the young man is hiding something.)

“Ah, sorry I’m late,” the kid starts to babble, “actually my train was late. Well, the second one. I did miss the first one –”

Oliver tunes out his words, focusing on the way he speaks. He’s young, fresh, and barely out of college probably, if that. His eyes are constantly moving even as his hands fidget as he speaks. Oliver doesn’t fail to notice the way those eyes keep flickering to him, but he’s used to that. It’s quite possible there’s nothing at all sinister behind it.

“This is Barry Allen,” Blair interrupts calmly at a pause in the kid’s rambling, a slight warning in his tone that suggests Allen should stop speaking sooner rather than later, “from the crime scene investigation unit in Central City. They’re working a similar case and decided to offer some assistance.”

(Allen nods a bit too fervently in the background at these words. Trying too hard. Either he’s _very_ nervous or he’s lying about something. Oliver tries to look past his paranoia but he can never ignore it completely, especially when whatever Allen is hiding might be relevant to the theft.)

Meanwhile, Rowley is frowning contemplatively at Allen’s earlier explanation, expression echoing what Oliver feels but refuses to show. (He’s starting to like Rowley more and more as he gets to know the man.) “You think one guy managed to rip this door open?” he asks, skeptical but clearly willing to hear Allen out.

“One very strong guy, yeah,” Allen nods, hesitant but confident at the same time. “Uh, it takes about, uh, 1,250 foot-pounds of torque to break someone’s neck. You see the marks on the guard’s neck? The bruising pattern suggests the killer used only one hand.”

At the clear evidence – the scientific fact that backs up Allen’s bizarre claims – Rowley’s gaze softens ever so slightly, moving from skeptical to curious. Oliver keeps his own expression blank at the thought of anyone breaking someone’s neck with only one hand and very carefully tries not to let his memories wander into the past. (It doesn’t work and for a moment he can only feel Slade’s hand on his throat as the other man sneers at him. He can’t remember if it’s something that had actually happened or if his mind is just conjuring up the scenario because of recent events.)

“I’m guessing you don’t know how hard it is to break someone’s neck.”

It takes Oliver a moment to realize the words are directed at him. “Hmm?” he manages to get out, keeping his body still and his breathing calm. He blinks, mind processing the words Allen had spoken. “Oh, no. No idea.” (Oliver knows exactly how much strength is required to break someone’s neck. He tries not to think about that either. This time it mostly works.)

With the pause in the conversation, the crime scene tech who had been fussing around behind them – the one who had handed Blair the tablet with the video of the break-in – steps forward. “Uh, we’re going to need a list of the entire inventory here to figure out exactly what was stolen,” he tells them a bit hesitantly, focusing mainly on Oliver, Rowley, and Felicity.

The kid starts at the words. “Actually, I think I know what was stolen,” he blurts out before any of the three Queen Consolidated representatives can speak. “A centrifuge,” he continues, stepping aside and gesturing for them to accompany him further into the warehouse, though his movements are still awkward and hesitant. “An industrial centrifuge. Probably the Kord Enterprises 2BX-900. Maybe the six series. Both have a three-column base.” He gestures to the open space where he’d led them. “Here, you can see the three sets of broken bolts where the thief just… ripped it out of the ground.”

Oliver studies the broken bolts, displeased to find himself agreeing with the kid. Whatever he’s hiding, or if it’s just nerves, he does seem to know what he’s talking about at least. Mirakuru is not the only explanation for an individual with enhanced strength, Oliver reminds himself. He’s seen magic do seemingly impossible things and Superman exists, after all.

“Since you seem to know what you’re doing, why don’t you tell us what a centrifuge is – and why someone might want one,” Blair says after a moment, looking up from studying the base himself.

At his side, Felicity shifts and chimes in before the kid can answer. “It separates liquids,” she says, speaking quickly as usual as the words burst out of her. “The centripetal acceleration causes denser substances to separate out along the radial direction.”

This is why Oliver had brought Felicity. She’s a genius in her field, but even when the science isn’t related to computers she tends to know at least the basics.

Allen nods in agreement. “The lighter objects move to the top,” he finishes for her.

As Blair and Rowley process the information, Felicity focuses on the CSI. “What did you say your name was again?” she asks (because, unlike Oliver, she doesn’t memorize names and faces the first time she meets someone).

“Barry. Allen,” the kid says, a bit flustered.

Felicity grins. “Felicity. Smoak,” she says, introducing herself similarly.

Oliver gives Allen a look at the way he’s letting himself get distracted by the first pretty girl he sees but it’s Blair who speaks up next, interrupting the moment.

“And why, exactly, would someone steal a centrifuge?” the detective asks.

Allen refocuses. “Oh, um, I’m… I’m not really sure. Most applications are scientific or industrial. I have one – a much smaller one – in the crime lab back home. I’m sure you guys do too. But, um…” he shrugs hopelessly.

Oliver’s gaze flickers over to Felicity, unsurprised when she speaks up next without any prompting.

“Centrifuges are used to separate liquids,” she repeats, “any liquids. It’s possible, I guess, technically speaking, that they could be using it to manufacture drugs? Not that I know anything about making drugs,” she adds quickly, with a glance over at Blair, “or even if there are any that need a centrifuge but… well I doubt they’re separating soil samples or nuclear isotopes.”

“The Kord 2BX-900 isn’t certified for nuclear materials anyway,” Allen chimes in, seemingly inspired by Felicity’s own thoughts. “But… centrifuges aren’t exactly regulated equipment. It’s not hard to buy one – a smaller one at least. If someone wanted a centrifuge this big…”

_That’s a lot of drugs_. No one says it but everyone hears it. Oliver’s stomach sinks at the thought of more Vertigo out on the streets. Or heroin, or cocaine, or whatever kind of drug it is that someone wants an industrial centrifuge to process it. ( _Or Mirakuru,_ a sinister thought in the back of his mind whispers. Oliver doesn’t ignore it, not exactly – he can’t ignore something that might be a threat – but he doesn’t focus too long on it either.)

“What other evidence do you have to support your theory that there was only one thief?” Blair is asking in the meantime.

Allen rambles briefly about the cracks in the floor and the set of footsteps walking away – a single person, carrying something heavy – but other than that he has nothing else to add. Not that he _needs_ something to add: none of the evidence contradicts itself and it all leads to one point. Oliver resolves to do a few background checks on Allen, the same way he would for any member of the SCPD (Blair’s background is clean, but he adds the tech working the case to his list of people to look up), but there’s not much left for him to do at the warehouse otherwise. Rowley certainly doesn’t need him. He can get the inventory list on his own.

“Detective,” Oliver calls out before he leaves. If it is Mirakuru… “I’d like to be kept updated on the investigation. Ms. Smoak already has access to the building’s systems and security footage and I’m authorizing Mr. Rowley to have free reign. I know the SCPD has a job to do but I’d like to keep this as in-house as possible.”

Blair eyes him, no doubt displeased by the privilege Oliver is displaying, but for once Oliver truly doesn’t care. If it _is_ Mirakuru he needs to know before anyone else does. Eventually, Blair nods. He knows that, if Oliver had wanted to, he could have taken the case from the police entirely. (But his guards are dead. If the police can bring the killer to justice, he won’t stop them.)

“This is your property, Mr. Queen, your people have full access.”

It’s easier, to pander to the arrogant rich, even if it’s obvious Blair doesn’t like it.

“Thank you,” Oliver says sincerely. He turns to Rowley and Felicity. “If you need anything from me…” he starts, directing his words at the company’s head of security.

“I’ll ask,” Rowley says shortly, before walking away to follow up with Blair.

Oliver turns to Felicity next. With her, he only has to raise an eyebrow.

“You think this is related to your… extracurriculars?” she asks, low and quiet.

“I think any man who can break someone’s neck with one hand is someone we might want to talk to,” he responds, just as low.

Felicity gets the point. She nods. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

Oliver leaves them to it. He has his own leads to check on.

* * *

Though his paranoia is flaring high, screaming at him about Mirakuru, Oliver knows that’s not the only possible explanation for what he’d just heard. He wants so badly to be wrong, though he knows that he doesn’t even really believe he is. But he has to check the other possibilities. Superman is his easiest source, so he makes his way to the quiet underneath Verdant and hits speed dial four on his second phone.

Superman readily admits that there are other aliens besides himself on Earth, and some of them might even have strength superior to what humans have, but he also says there aren’t _that_ many, and they’re not even all in the United States, let alone California. He doesn’t think there are any near Star City either.

Oliver takes that with a grain of salt, unwilling to discount it, but truthfully it’s not his first instinct either. Knowing his next contact will take time to track down, and wanting to check in on Felicity, Rowley, and the investigation in only a few hours, Oliver turns to other things.

The kid from Central City _is_ a CSI, and probably did hear about it on the wire, but also wasn’t sent by his captain. Oliver gives himself a mental note to research further into Allen’s background later, but he has other things he wants to focus on and it does seem as though Allen is only there to help, if for his own reasons. Oliver doesn’t discount the fact that he might be involved either though.

Next Oliver does a thorough sweep all the crimes reported over the past few weeks. There have been no other crimes of industrial-scale chemical equipment. There have been no other robberies of large-scale businesses that have resulted in deaths. There aren’t even any broken necks recorded for the past two months, and Oliver saves going back further for later.

He’s spent a few hours on research of his own. It’s time to find out what Felicity and the police have discovered.

(Throughout it all, Oliver can’t stop thinking about Mirakuru, can’t stop making plans, going through scenarios in his mind. He wasn’t the only one to have made it off that island. Should he contact Anatoly? Maybe whoever this is had gotten their Mirakuru elsewhere, through similar research to what Ivo had found to point him toward the direction of Lian Yu in the first place. Does he tell the SCPD about enhanced soldiers? Does he try to get the vigilante task force involved in this case? Does Allen know more than he’s letting on – or is he involved?

Thoughts and questions and scenarios run rampant in Oliver’s mind as he sorts through things and all the while Slade’s cruel smirk hovers at the edges of Oliver’s vision. Oliver ignores the sick feeling in his gut best he can and tries to focus on the present.)

Police work, though, is not instantaneous. Felicity and Rowley have little to report besides confirmation of the fact that the only thing stolen was a centrifuge – though Rowley seems both surprised and somewhat pleased when Oliver calls to check in – so Oliver moves on to his next contact.

Tracking down Constantine is harder than calling Superman had been – one man Oliver has on speed dial, the other he hasn’t spoken to or seen for two years – but it’s doable. Oliver knows the truth about what’s out there, about magic and demons, or at least the bare basics of the truth. With that knowledge in hand, it’s relatively easy to weed out the frauds from those who know the truth. And in the line of work that Constantine’s in, those who know the truth tend to know each other as well. It only takes Oliver three connections before he gets Constantine’s number.

The man himself greets Oliver pleasantly and readily admits that magic can lend strength – enough to break open industrial garage doors and rip heavy equipment off the floor – but when he hears Oliver’s description of the crime scene he expresses his doubts. Why break someone’s neck with one hand if you can use magic to kill them? Why leave footprints behind if you used magic to rip the centrifuge free?

Someone – a person or some other kind of being – could have used enhanced strength through magic, and Constantine offers to meander his way to Star City to check on it, but Oliver turns him down. There had been no signs of the rituals Constantine says would do the trick and the other man’s doubt is enough for him. He’d never thought it had been magic anyway.

When Oliver hangs up the phone he doesn’t look at the time spent as wasted hours and a dead end, but as another lead eliminated. And each lead eliminated forces his mind to think more and more about that substance that he would rather forget about entirely. Mirakuru.

If it _is_ Mirakuru though, he has no leads beyond what Felicity or the SCPD can manage to come up with. With all his other contacts he could get in touch with he either isn’t certain he can trust what they’ll say – ARGUS, mostly, but Anatoly has his own motives too – or doesn’t think they’ll know anything. Oliver’s met other people with unique skillsets along the way besides Superman and Constantine, but none of them know about the Mirakuru, none of them were on the island with him.

There is, however, one other person who was on Lian Yu. One other person who’d seen Slade’s madness and known the cause of it. Someone who’d worked with Ivo and probably knows more about the Mirakuru than he does – someone he’d twice thought dead and someone he trusts wholeheartedly, no matter what sort of life she leads now.

But Sara’s still running, and even if he’s keeping tabs on her, keeping track of where she goes this time, he’s not willing to bring her back for this. Not before he’s certain.

(His mind lingers on the idea for a little while though, before he forces it to turn to other things, picks up a bow and practices his shooting and thinks of nothing but the target in front of him.)

Oliver had already given both Diggle and Felicity the night off, and doesn’t put on the Arrow’s costume either, though he exercises now and again to keep his heart rate up. By noon he has no new leads from his own research, no new information from Felicity, Rowley, or the SCPD, and he hasn’t slept in over thirty hours. He doesn’t want to hear Slade’s voice in his head but he knows he needs sleep. Especially if there is a man running around the Glades with Mirakuru in his blood.

Unwilling to have those sort of nightmares at home, where Thea might hear, or in Verdant’s basement, where Felicity or Diggle or even Tommy and Thea could walk in, Oliver drives to his secondary base and forces himself to lay down on the cot and close his eyes.

He barely gets an hour’s rest before he jolts upward, panting at the phantom sensation of electricity running through his veins. Calming his heart – his mind, his breathing – as best as he is able, Oliver forces himself to try again. And again. And again.

* * *

* * *

_December 5, 2013, afternoon:_

Thea can’t stop looking at him. Thea can’t stop looking at him, and Moira’s getting ready to go to trial, and Slade’s voice haunts his nightmares and Mirakuru might be loose on the streets of Star City.

It’s too much. Too many different things to focus on, too many different things to fear, no matter how unlikely they may be.

Thea, hating him forever. His mother imprisoned for the rest of her life. Slade, strong enough to survive an arrow to the eye and a sinking ship. His city in ruins, brought down by a man (or more than one) so much stronger than Malcolm, who he’d barely beaten.

(And there’s still the List. Still Tommy, who wants to be close but wants nothing to do with the Arrow. Still Laurel, who Tommy doesn’t want to lie to, who Oliver can’t stop lying to. Still Sara, whose family thinks she’s dead, and Roy, who only wants to help the vigilante. Still the Bertinellis and other organized crime terrorizing the streets. Still the mystery of why he and Thea and Tommy were kidnapped.)

Incessant beeping pulls Oliver from his morbid thoughts and he laughs and grins and pulls his second phone out of his pocket for the prison attendant.

“Sorry,” he says, forcing the words to come out light and easy. “Business phone. Still not used to carrying it.” He steps back through the metal detector, places it in the bin, and walks through again, this time with no fuss.

Thea stares at him like she’s seeing him for the first time. The guards are entirely unamused. But he’s still Oliver Queen to them, still a stupid billionaire struggling to keep his family’s company afloat, so his ‘forgetfulness’ served its purpose.

There _isn’t_ too much for him to handle, he reminds himself. He’s dealt with worse. His friends aren’t dying in front of him – he doesn’t have to kill them himself. This is… it’s complicated. And most of it’s still a mystery to him, which makes it worse. But that doesn’t mean he can’t handle it.

He has to be able to handle it. There’s no one else. But he’s not alone anymore. He can only hope that, as bad as he fears this is going to get, Digg and Felicity stick around this time to help him handle it. (And if they don’t… well, he’s already working on contingency plans for that too.)

“Thea!” Moira says warmly, pleased. “Oliver! I’m so glad you came!”

Oliver pushes his morbid thoughts away again and forces himself to relax. He exchanges glances with Thea and sees the grim determination in her eyes. Whatever their mother thinks, they’re not here for a casual visit. There here to bring whatever secret she’s still keeping from them to light.

They sit side by side at the hard metal table and Oliver pointedly does not once think of Mirakuru.

* * *

Moira doesn’t tell them anything. But Oliver thinks she’s finally starting to consider that doing so might just be a good idea, if only he and Thea can convince her.

* * *

* * *

_December 7, 2013, early morning:_

It takes Felicity and the SCPD (and Barry Allen) a few days to come up with a lead. By then, Lance’s task force has caught wind of the investigation. There are enough oddities about it to make more than one person think it might fall under the vigilante taskforce’s purview – the fact that it looks like one man lifted several hundred pounds of industrial equipment and walked away with it, for one. But it seems that Lance has enough respect for Blair to mostly leave it alone and, despite the existence of Superman and what he’s capable of and the kind of things that have come out of Gotham lately, Star City’s vigilante taskforce really only deals with crimes involving the Green Arrow.

Not taking over another detective’s crime scene and ignoring it entirely are two different things though. When Felicity finally does get a lead, it’s not long before Lance gives the Arrow a call. Oliver doesn’t need the excuse that Lance passing on the information gives him – he’s following up on the lead regardless – but he’ll take it. It’ll make Lance less likely to wonder how the Arrow found out about this case and dampen any possible connection between the Arrow and Queen Consolidated. Though, now that he’s confirmed Felicity’s connection to the Arrow, and given that Felicity is actually working this case officially on behalf of the company, maybe it’s not something he’d wonder about anyway.

“Need backup on this?” Digg asks as Oliver hoods up. Oliver might not have told his teammates about the Mirakuru yet – and he won’t until he’s certain that’s what they’re dealing with – but they’ve noticed something’s up with his mood. They’re mostly attributing that to the fact that they might be up against a guy with super strength, but Oliver purposefully forces himself not to hide his edginess and paranoia from them.

(When they’d asked if he knew what was going on, Oliver had only shaken his head and told them to hope that he was wrong.)

Oliver hesitates. He thinks about saying yes – Mirakuru or not, his enemy will be strong – but they’re not certain of anything yet. And he doesn’t want to put Diggle – a man without any experience dealing with enemies so much stronger than humans should be – in that kind of situation. The man still has trouble accepting that aliens exist. Even if he’s trained not to freeze in a fight, a single moment of shock could get him killed.

“Not yet,” he says, throwing up his hood. He hopes he never has to take Digg up on his offer.

The lead Felicity had found (with help from Allen and the SCPD) is a stolen truck from a sugar warehouse. It’s a tenuous lead, going on nothing more than the fact that their thief had had sugar and dirt on his boots, but it’s something. It’s also something dangerous – the truck in question is on the move, having just stolen 30,000 ccs of O-negative from a blood bank. And since it was a police flag that alerted them to the theft at the blood bank there’s every possibility that they could interrupt his chase. Unlikely, given their reaction times as opposed to his, and Felicity’s quick access to traffic cams, but possible.

Oliver’s motorcycle roars into action as he speeds after the truck, Felicity’s voice in his ear giving him directions. He does not focus on what was stolen, pointedly ignores what it might mean, even as he prepares to go against someone with super strength. He needs to be certain before he commits to anything and he cannot let himself be distracted by thoughts of Slade and Ivo.

The driver of the truck isn’t a complete amateur, but Oliver still gets the drop on him, literally dropping down from where he’d climbed onto the roof of the moving vehicle. The window – against all odds – is open, leaving Oliver free to lash out at the masked thief inside, but the man takes his hits like they’re nothing, almost punching Oliver free of the truck entirely. Only his hold on the edge of the doorframe prevents him from being flung out onto the harsh and unforgiving pavement. Instead he lets out a grunt of pain as his back hits the windshield.

A fist through the glass shatters the only thing supporting him at the moment but that matters little compared to what comes next: the thief’s hand latches onto the back of Oliver’s uniform and pulls him inside the truck. (If he’d been a little smarter, he’d just have pushed Oliver forward, into the truck’s path to be run over, but some people can’t think of anything but using their bare hands, can’t analyze situations as rapidly as he can in the middle of a fight.)

Oliver recovers quickly despite his surprise, mind rolling with the metaphorical punches. He shifts his momentum to land properly in the passenger’s seat and doesn’t bother with another hit of his own. Instead a quick twist of his wrist brings a flechette to his hand and he jabs the arrowhead into the man’s thigh with as much force as he can muster. He can’t dwell on his worst fears too much, not in the middle of a fight for his life, but if this is what he thinks it is… Well, a blood sample’s really the only way to be certain. And to be certain of where they might be going next.

From the way the arrow penetrates flesh – or doesn’t, rather – Oliver’s not sure even a blood test will be necessary. But he keeps a tight grip on the arrow as the thief shoves him backward. His impact with the passenger’s side door is even more painful than hitting the windshield had been but not debilitating. The force of the impact sends both Oliver and the door flying, but they’ve slowed down enough during the fight – and the door itself is shielding him – that the impact with the pavement isn’t as bad as it otherwise could have been.

His skid gets broken by debris and garbage on the side of the road and Oliver heaves himself to his feet, back aching fiercely, staring at the bloody and crumpled arrow clutched in his hand. The whole fight probably took less than a minute.

Unfortunately, this looks exactly like what he fears it is.

* * *

As she has every night (morning) at Verdant since Oliver had shown her the basement, Thea spends half her shift distracted, thinking of the equipment just under her and wondering what Oliver is doing that night, how much he’s putting himself on danger, which criminals he’s taking off the streets. She’s not so distracted tonight, however, that she doesn’t notice Sin fidgeting more than normal, seemingly unable to stay still.

Sure enough, Sin actually stays past closing and corners her and Roy away from the cleaning staff before any of them can leave.

“What’s up?” Roy asks immediately, concern in his eyes. He must have noticed her unease too.

Sin looks away uncertainly for a moment, something she’s started to do less and less as she’s begun trusting them more and more, then seems to gather up her courage. “It’s my friend, Max,” she says. “I haven’t seen him in about a week – no one has. I thought, maybe, you could…”

“Let Green Arrow know?” Roy finishes for her. “Yeah, no problem. Tell me everything you know about him.”

But Thea interrupts before Sin can spill the details. “Why don’t we just go look for him?”

Both Roy and Sin turn to look at her with equal expressions of surprise on their faces, though whether it’s at the suggestion or because _she’s_ the one who made the suggestion she can’t say. But Thea wants to do _more_. It’s all she’s wanted these past few months and she wants it now more than ever that she knows how Oliver has been spending his nights. Oliver’d seen the evil in their mother and managed to stop it. Thea never wants to be tricked like that again, and more, she doesn’t want anyone else to ever have to learn something similar about their own mothers, or fathers.

“I mean, and I’m not trying to be offensive, but it’s only one guy, right? Between the three of us we should be able to find _something_. He’s not in the mob or anything, right?”

Roy looks skeptical but hesitant to voice that, but Sin doesn’t have the same fear of offending her that her boyfriend does.

“Since when are you the type to go all vigilante?”

“It’s not being a _vigilante_ ,” Thea says. “I just… if we can help him, shouldn’t we? I’m not saying we don’t let – let the Green Arrow know, but…” Roy and Sin exchange glances and Thea turns to her boyfriend. “Oh come on, since when are you the type to walk away from someone in need?” She _knows_ he’s not, and she loves that about him even if it makes her worry.

Thea still doesn’t want to picture Roy fighting crime on the streets (doesn’t even want to picture Oliver doing the same, though she knows the Green Arrow is more than capable) but this? This is just an investigation. It shouldn’t be that hard, right?

“ _I_ didn’t say I had a problem with it,” Sin says, when Thea gives her and Roy each a look during the following silence. “I’m just saying, it’s a bit of a change from your ‘stay out of danger’ mode.”

“Hey, I walk through the same streets as you. It wasn’t so much ‘staying out of danger’ as it was –”

“Keeping out of fights,” Roy finishes for her with a knowing look. ( _Does_ he know about Oliver? He can’t, can he? But just because Oliver hasn’t told her doesn’t mean he might not have his own suspicions.)

Thea nods at his words. It’s… more or less the same thing, but… “We go during the day tomorrow, or, later today I guess, we stick together, shouldn’t be a problem, right? And Roy can let the Green Arrow know in the meantime, and if we don’t come up with anything in a few days we let him handle it.” Let _Oliver_ handle it.

“So long as we play it safe,” Roy agrees, and Thea knows he’s not thinking of his own safety but of hers and Sin’s.

“Sure,” Sin agrees easily, though there’s still a bit of anxiety and urgency in her gaze at the thought of her missing friend. “But what about all our other ideas, about helping the Glades?”

“I’m free Thursday,” Thea offers, “if we still want to go through with that.” Her words are more or less a lie – there’s no way she’s backing out – but she doesn’t want to seem too eager. She’s wanted to tell Roy and Sin about Oliver’s identity a hundred times since she’d found out – wants to _talk_ to someone about it – and she’s been having trouble suppressing her resulting moods.

“You know I don’t have any plans,” Sin agrees.

Roy shrugs. “Yeah, I’m in.”

* * *

It takes Oliver a little while to track down his bike but it’d only suffered superficial damage when he’d abandoned it to climb aboard the truck and, at three in the morning, these streets aren’t exactly well traveled. He lets himself hobble a little, though he keeps his guard up, until he’s roaring back down Star City’s streets to the foundry.

Despite the fact that Felicity and Digg were well aware of his status after the fight, they’re both tense when he returns. Oliver hides some of his pain but not all of it and lets Digg tape him up. There’s no blood this time, just plenty of bruises, so he doesn’t even have that to rely on as a distraction. Felicity doesn’t get squeamish at bruises. (Not anymore.)

Not that he needs a distraction, just… he doesn’t want to talk about Mirakuru. About the island. He doesn’t want to, but then, he rarely gets what he wants and he knows he has to. The crumpled arrowhead is reminder enough of that.

“I’ve seen men with abilities like this before,” he admits into the expectant silence, tense and unhappy.

“You mean, apart from Superman?” Felicity asks in surprise.

“You said _men_ ,” Digg clarifies.

Oliver grimaces. “Men,” he agrees. “Not aliens.” There’s no need now to go into the possibility of magic, for all Digg’s jokes earlier about vampires, given the theft of the blood.

“When would you have –?” Felicity starts to ask, catching herself quicker than she normally would. “Oh.” She exchanges glances with Diggle.

The island is a touchy topic in the foundry and they all know it. The tension has more or less eased between them – they might yet leave, but Oliver’s decided that doesn’t mean he needs to deliberately push them away – but they’re not _quite_ where they were before. They haven’t quite gotten back into the habit of grabbing dinner together before a night together, or breakfast when the night ends. Certain topics – the island, mostly, but Lane and Sara too – are avoided like the plague. Oliver stands, turns away, and then turns back again. “I told you already,” he says shortly, “about the people who came there my second year, looking for something.”

“Something left by the Japanese in World War II,” Digg states. Oliver’s not surprised he remembers.

He nods briefly. “They found it. It was a chemical designed to enhance a soldier’s abilities. Human weapons.”

“Human weapons?” Digg scoffs, not as though he doesn’t believe Oliver but as though he doesn’t believe that such a thing could exist.

“They were trying to make their own Superman,” Felicity cuts in, staring at Oliver with shocked awe, “weren’t they?” She quickly corrects herself, waving aside her error. “I mean, before Superman existed, obviously, and human, but…”

“Something like that,” Oliver admits tightly.

Diggle’s skeptical expression evens out. “You’re serious?” he asks, though of course he already knows the answer to that. “The Japanese actually succeeded?”

Oliver’s muscles tighten even more as his expression darkens. He knows it’s more obvious than he wants to be – he can see Felicity and Digg reacting to his reaction – but he can’t help it. “Define success,” he bites out, jaw clenched.

Digg stares at him for a moment and something in his eyes must convince his friend of the seriousness of the situation because Digg straightens, something of a soldier’s posture making its way into his body language. “So, what, those criminals you mentioned tested it out? One of them made it off the island?”

“Everyone who knew about it died on the island,” Oliver says darkly.

“Everyone?” Digg asks.

Oliver spins toward him, ready with a scathing retort, before he sees Digg’s gentle expression and remembers. Right. His friends here in the foundry know more than anyone else. They know Sara’s alive. They know about ARGUS, or at least a little about how Oliver had first encountered the shadowy agency. (They don’t know about Anatoly, but Oliver’s almost (mostly) certain that he’s not involved in this. He’ll keep that secret for now.)

“Sara was there for most of it,” he admits. “ARGUS wasn’t _on_ the island, that I knew of, but…” But frankly, there’s no telling how much ARGUS was aware of. For all Oliver knew, one of the men on Ivo’s boat could have been a plant. They’d be dead now if that was the case, but that didn’t mean a potential plant couldn’t have passed on information. Or maybe ARGUS had just been watching from a distance. They clearly hadn’t seen everything – they’d missed Sara’s survival as surely as Oliver had (unless… but it’s best not to let his thoughts go there) – but they’d seen enough to get there in time to save him after the _Amazo_ had gone down.

Diggle is shaking his head at Oliver’s words. “There’s no telling what ARGUS knows then,” he says, echoing Oliver’s thoughts. “You think they’re behind this?”

Before, he never would have asked Oliver. With his ex-wife working for the agency and as a former soldier himself, Diggle had been their go-to person for questions about ARGUS. But Digg’s been looking at Oliver in a new light ever so slightly since he’d found out that Oliver had actually worked for the agency.

Oliver shakes his head. “No,” he says plainly. He’s not worried about that. Even if ARGUS _was_ experimenting with Mirakuru (unlikely, but technically possible) they wouldn’t have let such an individual get away from them. Especially not one who knew enough to make more, as it looks like the man is trying to do. (He might check with them anyway though, or prompt Digg to question Lyla.)

“So… Who then?” Felicity asks uncertainly, glancing between the two of them.

“I don’t know,” Oliver says, tense and worried. That’s what scares him. The Mirakuru itself is bad enough but not knowing who’s behind it is worse. Of course, there’s a thought even worse than that lurking in his mind, and for once it’s not the memory of Slade. “But I think they’re trying to make more of it. A lot more.”

“The centrifuge and the blood?” Felicity clarifies.

“There’s one more component,” Oliver responds in place of an answer. “A strong sedative.” He glances over at the arrowhead. He doesn’t really need to test the blood for the presence of Mirakuru – he’s not sure any analysis would even know what to look for in that regard. All he really needs to know are the components. Particularly, the sedative. He picks up the arrow, fingers tight against the smooth shaft as he stares at the crumpled metal.

Felicity is staring at it too. “You know we don’t have the equipment to analyze that right? And that I wouldn’t even know where to start?” Her tone is regretful but firm. “I mean, I appreciate your confidence in me, but I’m a computer scientist, not a forensic scientist.”

“I know,” Oliver says readily, turning to face Felicity and Digg again even as he keeps a hold on the arrow. “Which leaves us with a few options.”

“Lance?” Digg asks skeptically. “You know he’d want to know everything we do.”

“And I don’t want him involved with this,” Oliver agrees. He considers Hwang briefly, then dismisses her for the same reason. ARGUS too. It’s best to keep them out of things, just in case this _is_ something they caused. Besides, he doesn’t need to be owing them any favors.

“Barry was… pretty excited about the vigilante,” Felicity offers hesitantly. “And Blair’s following up other leads right now. If I tell him that the Arrow gave, well, that arrow, to the police for analysis…”

Allen would analyze it, no question. Oliver trusts in that. But he doesn’t trust Allen.

“There is no similar case in Central City,” Oliver says plainly.

Felicity blinks at him. “What?”

“Allen lied – his bosses at the CCPD think he’s on sick leave. There’s no way to be certain why he’s here.”

Felicity bristles. “You looked into him?” she asks unhappily. Oliver’s not sure of why (besides the slight infatuation she and Allen seem to be harboring for each other).

“I investigate anyone who works for the police,” he shoots back, barely keeping his tone level. She knows that – she’s the one doing the background checks half the time.

Sure enough, Felicity’s shoulders deflate slightly. “He… he might just be here to meet you?” she suggests.

Oliver can gather from context that she doesn’t mean _him_ , she means the Arrow.

“He was telling me this story,” she continues, “about how his mom was murdered and they never caught the guy. He thinks… well, that you would have.”

If Felicity’s expecting the story to tug at Oliver’s heartstrings, or make him trust Allen, she’ll be sorely disappointed. Oliver already knows that Allen’s father is in prison for his mother’s murder. What the true facts of the case are he can’t be certain, but that doesn’t really matter here.

He holds out the arrow to Felicity. Her, he trusts. And he’s fairly certain that, why ever Allen is here, it has nothing to do with the people planning to make more Mirakuru. “If this is the best way, fine, but don’t tell him any more than you have to.”

Felicity bristles again but even she knows better than to bite back. They both know she likes to talk, but they also both know she can keep a secret. She’s kept his, after all.

Felicity takes the arrowhead and bags it. “We’ll get started first thing in the morning,” she promises. “Which means I really need to get some sleep.”

Oliver and Digg say their goodbyes and it’s only after Felicity is out of sight that Oliver turns to his other partner.

“Technically,” Digg says, “I’m still watching Tommy. But he doesn’t tend to leave the apartment before noon.”

Oliver nods once. “Keep an eye on them,” he says, before sweeping from the room. He doesn’t need to clarify any further. Diggle will keep Felicity safe.

* * *

* * *

_December 8, 2013, morning:_

Barry Allen is young and quick and eager and, quite frankly, absolutely adorable. (Well, he _seems_ young. He’s probably only actually a little bit younger than her, given that he’s already out of college and working for the CCPD.) He has this wide beaming smile that fills his eyes and he rambles almost as much as her and he’s so enthusiastic about his work. It’s very cute, how much he loves his work and how excited he gets at the thought of Oliver. Green-Arrow-Oliver, not billionaire-Oliver, though he’d gushed to her a bit earlier about meeting the billionaire too and his questions about working for billionaire-Oliver had been almost been as numerous as his questions about whether or not she’d ever seen the vigilante.

When Felicity tells him that she has evidence given to the SCPD by the vigilante (only partly a lie, since she’s actually working with the SCPD on this case, and Oliver _had_ given the evidence to her) his excitement shoots past a ten and all the way up to a twenty.

“Why aren’t the police analyzing it?” he asks though, not completely infatuated.

“Oliver has a lot of connections,” Felicity says easily, glancing around the Queen Consolidated lab they’re working out of. “He wants to keep the investigation quiet. And Queen Consolidated has the equipment.”

“Yeah, they do,” Barry agrees, looking around. He glances back at the rack of chemicals he was just complaining about. “They need to work on their lab safety though.”

Felicity holds up her hands, grinning. “Not my lab,” she says plainly. “I tend to stick with computers.”

Barry grins at her.

For a moment, she considers asking him out for a coffee or something afterward. He’s adorable and smart and fun to be around and it’s been so long since she’s had anything resembling a social life, much less a date. But he’s still lied about why he’s here and some of Oliver’s paranoia seems to have rubbed off on her. Meeting him alone for a date… Well, it might not be the _best_ idea out there.

She clears her throat before the silence between them can become awkward and gestures to the arrow. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” Barry agrees happily.

They get to work. And if they talk a bit more about why Barry came to Star City… well, let’s just say that it’s Felicity’s turn to say ‘I told you so’ in the Arrow cave tonight.

* * *

* * *

_December 8, 2013, afternoon:_

Oliver is the Green Arrow. _Oliver_ is the Green Arrow. Oliver is the _Green Arrow_. It’s been three weeks and the thought – the revelation – still seems to consume Thea’s every waking moment, no matter what she’s doing.

Now, she’s in the Glades with Roy and Sin, headed for Sin’s friend’s house, and all she can think about is the fact that Oliver roams these streets at night, hood over his head and bow in his hand, stopping whatever crimes he comes across.

“You alright?” Roy’s worried tone, more than his actual words, pulls Thea from her thoughts and back to reality. (Oliver’s the Green Arrow. He’d saved Roy’s life. Her life. The lives of literally _everyone_ in the Glades. She hadn’t even realized her mother was a criminal until Moira had called a press conference and announced it to the world. She’s never felt so _useless_.)

“Huh?” she asks, her step faltering somewhat as her head jerks around toward her boyfriend.

“Are you alright?” Roy repeats. Even Sin is giving her odd looks from Roy’s other side.

“Yeah,” Thea says quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just, seem…” Roy hesitates, maybe searching for a word, maybe reluctant to say whatever word is actually on his mind.

“Distracted,” Sin finishes for him definitively, firmly, tone firmly uncaring as to how Thea might take the adjective.

That’s alright. Neither Sin nor Roy knows just how distracted she actually is.

“Sorry,” Thea lies, “just class. Might’ve been a bad idea to start with two _and_ a full-time job.” It’s a complete and utter lie – she is breezing through the two online classes she’d signed up for to get Oliver off her back, even with finals coming up – but it buys her the time she needs. She wouldn’t know the first thing to say about what’s going through her brain right now. She’s pretty sure she shouldn’t say _anything._

Roy gives her an uncertain look but Sin seems to buy it. Thea tries to remember if she’d mentioned anything about her classes to Roy before. Shit. Had she told him a couple weeks ago that they were a breeze, or had she been talking to Walter? She gives herself a mental shake. It doesn’t matter. Classes get harder the further into the semester you go. It’s an easy excuse.

“This is it,” Sin says, interrupting her worries and gesturing to the building in front of them. At no further prompting she leads them inside.

Max’s place is a complete mess – Thea’s not sure anyone would be able to tell if the place had been ransacked or not – but Sin’s worries only get worse.

“I could always crash here when I didn't have a place to stay,” she admits as they search.

Thea tries, not for the first time, to picture what kind of life Sin must lead, not knowing where she’s going to sleep each night. She doesn’t even know where her friend’s sleeping now.

They don’t find anything but that only makes Thea more determined to keep looking.

* * *

* * *

_December 8, 2013, night:_

“How’d it go?” Oliver asks in place of a greeting, when he enters the basement of the foundry to find that Felicity and Diggle are already waiting for him.

“I was right,” Felicity says, grinning in triumph. “Barry jumped at the chance to work the same case as the _Arrow_.” She gives a weird twist to his alter-ego’s name, follows it up with an amused smirk and a carefully raised eyebrow, and Oliver very carefully ignores the feeling that twists through his stomach in response. He wouldn’t even know how to give the feeling a name.

“What did you find?” he asks.

Felicity’s grin falters slightly before she rolls her eyes. “Barry’s not who you think he is either,” she says fiercely, “I asked him.”

Putting aside the fact that _Barry_ was perfectly capable of lying to Felicity a second time, Oliver frowns. “That could have been dangerous –” he starts.

“We are talking about the same guy, right?” Felicity asks. “Tall, thin as a beanpole, incredibly nerdy?”

None of which means that he isn’t dangerous. They’re only a few months short of Felicity’s one-year anniversary of working with a vigilante and sometimes Oliver thinks she still hasn’t learned anything. Oliver’s frown deepens. But there’s no point in trying to convince her now, especially given how enamored she seems to be with the young man. And Oliver doesn’t need to encourage her.

(He trusts Felicity. Whatever she’d found out about Allen – whatever she’d _thought_ she’d found out – if it’s important she’ll make sure he and Digg know. Otherwise, Oliver doesn’t care.)

“What did you find?” he repeats firmly.

Felicity deliberately misinterprets his question. “That there was something unnatural about his mother’s murder. Something… not human. At the end of it, his dad was the only one left to blame and the police stopped looking. But Barry’s been investigating odd cases ever since, and when he heard about this one…” She raises an eyebrow, her nonverbal ‘I told you so’ very clear.

Something in Oliver settles at the explanation – if it’s true it means that Allen has no involvement with the Mirakuru – but he doesn’t let it show. “And the sedative?” he asks instead.

Felicity frowns unhappily but she knows how important this is. She’ll be sure to ream Oliver out later, when the threat’s gone, but not now. “Ketamine,” she says. “It’s a controlled substance, I’ve already started working on tracking who in Star City has access.”

It’s confirmation of what Oliver already knows. There’s Mirakuru in Star City. And, according to Felicity, there’s only one possible place that could hold the amount of ketamine needed based on the amount of blood stolen – an emergency ARGUS bunker on the edge of town.

This time, as opposed to every other time Oliver’s put on the hood and headed out ready for a fight, Felicity almost tells him not to go. “Your arrows may cut this guy, but they will not stop him,” she says, showing him the way the arrowhead had crumpled.

“Well, I've beat someone like this before, Felicity,” Oliver says. “I can do it again.”

“What if you can't?”

Oliver doesn’t answer. He has to. Failure isn’t an option here.

* * *

Oliver walks into the warehouse trying to ready himself for the possibility of facing a Mirakuru enhanced individual – there’s no doubt of that anymore, it’s only a matter of timing, of whether or not Oliver’s gotten here early enough – but his mind refuses to focus that way. _Mirakuru does not mean Slade, or even Ivo_ , he tells himself, the way he already has a dozen times tonight. There are others who could have found Ivo’s research, or took the information from ARGUS, or just done their own research and found the same hints in Japan’s history that Ivo had.

But he can’t quite convince himself of that and that… Well, he knows it’s not a good thing. It has him distracted and paranoid and riding high on adrenaline that has him jumping at shadows. Figuratively, at least – he’s still a trained operative – but that’s not enough.

He’s fought people with super strength before and sparred with Superman enough times to pick up on a few more pointers (though he’s hasn’t mentioned that he was studying the alien that way to the man himself, of course). He can’t walk into this kind of fight distracted. That’s practically rule number one.

But he can’t stop himself from seeing the _Amazo_ either. From feeling the ship tilt beneath him and the heavy weight of chains on his wrists. From smelling the mixture of saltwater and blood and steel. From hearing the waves crash against steel and the groans of the old metal.

There’s no one else that can handle this though. There’s a Mirakuru enhanced thug walking around the Glades, trying to make more Mirakuru, and that means Oliver _has_ to take care of it. As soon as possible. This is not something he can just let slide, like Lane’s bombings, or take months to research and dismantle, like the Bertinelli Family they’re still in the process of taking down.

Which means he can’t avoid this warehouse no matter how distracted he is. He knows, better than most people on the planet, the threat that Mirakuru presents.

The thief is already there when he arrives, quick enough to dodge Oliver’s arrows and get up in his face instead, removing that advantage. But Oliver’s learned a lot since he’d fought Slade all those years ago. He pins the man to the wall long enough to ask him a few questions – this thief is not the head of the operations and he sounds thoroughly enamored with whoever is (enough that Oliver considers brainwashing, or a cult like atmosphere at the very least) – and when the masked thief breaks free of the wall two arrows to his feet pin him to the concrete as quick as Oliver can. He doesn’t even flinch backward, however much this reminds him of Slade.

Anyone else would be screaming in agony at the moment but the thief only groans loudly in pain. Oliver doesn’t bother with another arrow, knowing it wouldn’t penetrate enough to be serious and that the Mirakuru enhanced soldier would be able to shrug off pain that could kill a normal man. Instead he whirls around the pinned man, using every tactic he knows to aim for vulnerable spots with his fists and bow and feet.

But he’s not quick enough. He can’t stop thinking of Slade and the _Amazo_ , isn’t thinking clearly, isn’t putting himself at a distance and turning the man into a pincushion like he should be doing.

The man gets a single blow in, which wouldn’t matter so much in any other fight but in this fight sends Oliver reeling backward long enough for the thief to snap one of the arrow shafts pinning him in place. Moments later another blow gives him the opportunity to snap the other arrow and pull his feet free.

Oliver pays for his arrogance, thinking he could handle this alone while old memories still haunted him. If he’d brought more wire-cable arrows, or if Diggle had been hidden in a strategic position with his pistol, or if…

He doesn’t have much time to think about it or curse himself as he gets pummeled, then thrown into some of the boxes of medical supplies. Distracted though he may have been, Oliver has just enough of his wits about him still to realize some of the medicine he’s landed on was in injectable form – and it’s sticking out of his leg.

His vision darkens. If the thief decides to kill him it’s over – there’s nothing Oliver can do. He can barely breathe, breath coming in short, harsh gasps. His back aches from the impacts he’s taken and his legs feel like they’ve been rendered immobile. All he can hear is his own heartbeat and breathing.

Oliver just barely has the strength to activate his comm link before the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, long author's note coming up: 
> 
> First, I just want to say thanks again to all of my amazing readers. I'm really glad people are enjoying my rewrite as much as I am so far. 
> 
> Second, I did rewatch canon to try and figure out the timing of everything that happened in these crossover episodes and... well, it didn't make much sense. So I spread things out a bit (this is a police investigation...) and changed a few things to make a bit more sense. (As much as I love our first canon "crossover" ever, there were some details that made no sense. But you don't need to hear me rant about that.)
> 
> Third, with this chapter, we have now officially introduced Barry Allen, and yes, he will be getting his own story. For those of you who are interested in the Flash, the first chapter of that story will be posted tomorrow (as Barry's first scene here is Dec. 4th). If you're not interested in reading that, no worries - reading both stories will not be (should not be) necessary for understanding the other. Also, the timeline for that show also doesn't make sense, but I'll expound upon that in that fic. It will be part of the "Justice League" series, so it should be easy enough for those interested readers to find. 
> 
> Finally, I've left you all with a cliffhanger, but this one's not so bad. We know what happens in canon, right? Chapter 26: Shattered Delusions, will pick up on Dec. 8th where this chapter leaves off. The next couple of chapters after that will be one after the other as we deal with these plot points. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	26. Shattered Delusions

_December 8, 2013, night:_

John is almost out the door already as Oliver falls silent, heart racing with fear for his best friend. Oliver had told them what they were going up against – why hadn’t he gone with him? Oliver’s good at what he does – after over a year of working with him there’s no questioning that – but John _knows_ he’s not invincible. He’s seen Oliver get hurt before. And up against a guy with super strength…

But Oliver had told him he had it and John, against all reason, had taken him at face value. He’s not a vigilante, he doesn’t wear a mask and doesn’t go out into the field often because of that. But he’s still a trained soldier. He could have done _something_.

“What are you doing?” he asks in surprise, as he opens the door and turns slightly to find that Felicity, slightly out of breath, is right behind him.

“I’m coming with you,” she says, like it’s not a question, like it was never in doubt.

“Like hell you are,” John says, caught up in the heat of the moment. He’s worried enough about Oliver, he doesn’t need to worry about Felicity too. “We have no idea what the scene is.”

Felicity doesn’t falter, even in the face of his glare. “I’m coming with you,” she repeats more firmly.

John hesitates for a moment, but the truth is he doesn’t have time to argue. Oliver could be bleeding out as they speak. He could have been taken hostage. ( _He could be dead_ , an unwelcome voice whispers in the back of his mind.) He yanks the door open, striding outside. “You do _exactly_ as I say,” he tells Felicity as they walk, the shorter woman half-jogging to keep up with his long strides. He just barely catches her nod of agreement as he wrenches open his car door, slipping inside as fast as he can. The vehicle’s already in drive by the time Felicity shuts her door and she buckles her seatbelt as John starts to drive off.

Truthfully, even though he wants her nowhere near the ARGUS bunker, John’s glad Felicity came with him. She’s got a tablet in her lap and she alternates between trying to get Oliver to respond again and directing him through (and around) the little traffic there is this late at night. It’s not anything she couldn’t do from Verdant, but there’s something slightly comforting about having her right there next to him, telling him which way to turn. John knows he shouldn’t like it, but he does.

Oliver’s motorcycle is still outside the ARGUS facility but there’s no other vehicle in sight as John screeches to a halt, throwing his door open and pulling out his gun. That’s not necessarily good news. Their enemy could have been dropped off, with a getaway driver waiting out of sight. Or their enemy could have taken Oliver with him. (They have a tracker though, if that’s the case, John reminds himself.)

John prepares himself for anything, even the possibility of finding Oliver dead inside. He slows his beating heart with great effort, slowing his feet too as he does so.

“Stay behind me,” he bites out to Felicity, gun up and eyes alert. He scans the parking lot thoroughly before making his way to the front door, no matter that his brain is screaming at him to go check on Oliver. There’s no one there, and there’s no one inside either when Digg carefully inches his way through the front door.

It is immediately obvious that a fight went down inside. Two broken arrows, fletching half snapped off, are stuck in the pavement about shoulder-width apart, soaked in blood in the center of the aisle. Boxes are strewn about, knocked off the shelves, and one whole shelf appears to have been knocked over, the contents of the boxes that had sat there scattered across the floor. John notes all this, and catalogues it in his mind, but doesn’t try and figure out what it might mean about the fight that had occurred.

That can come later, after he clears the room and finds Oliver. Behind him, Felicity hovers anxiously, body leaning forward as if she wants to leave the protection of his gun behind and race forward to find their partner.

It’s dark in the warehouse, and the knocked over shelving is mostly hidden from view from the angle of the front door by other shelving, so John doesn’t spot Oliver’s fallen body right away. But the warehouse isn’t large either, and he doesn’t honestly expect anyone to still be there, so he clears it in seconds. Finding Oliver doesn’t take long after that.

John’s heart races furiously as he sees the still form. Dark green blends into the black shelving, some of Oliver’s limbs hidden behind boxes. Orange needles stick out of his left leg and he’s fallen with his hood still covering his face, for the most part.

“Oliver! Oliver!” John calls out, echoed by a cry from Felicity as well. His gun drops to his side as Felicity hurries forward, crouching down by Oliver’s side. “Is he alive?” John asks, with an urgency he hasn’t felt in a long while.

“His pulse is weak, but it’s there.” Felicity turns her attention to the vigilante. “Oliver! Can you hear me?”

John’s heart wrenches at the lack of a response. If he hasn’t woken up by now…

“His pupils are dilated,” Felicity tells him urgently, yanking the needles out of Oliver’s leg.

“What the hell was that?” John asks, eyes following the path of the needles as she tosses them aside before he returns his attention to Oliver.

“I don’t know, it’s coded,” Felicity says, hurrying over to the computer on the far side of Oliver’s body.

John holsters his gun and takes his own turn crouching at Oliver’s side, taking comfort in the way his friend’s chest still rises and falls ever so slightly. He thought he’d been done with this kind of worry when he’d put the military in his past. And then he’d gone and gotten involved with Oliver Queen. _You’re going to be the death of me one day_ , he thinks, and he doesn’t mean physically. Oliver is the kind of man it is very easy to worry about, with as little as he seems to care about his own safety.

Across Oliver’s prone form, Felicity lets out a swear. “I don’t have time to hack into the dispensary files, I have no idea what he was injected with – poisoned with.”

John stands, pulling out his phone instead of his gun, heart pounding like it’s going to break out of his chest from how fragile he feels at the moment. “Alright, we don’t have a choice.”

Felicity freezes, staring at him in alarm. “What are you doing?”

What does it look like he’s doing? “Calling 911.”

“Digg, wait!”

Wait? _Wait?!_ Oliver is dying right before their eyes and Felicity wants him to just stand by and let it happen? They have no idea how badly Oliver is injured, or what he was injected with – no idea of how long he has left. But respect for what Felicity is capable of, coupled with the knowledge of how Oliver would react if he knew what John was about to do, stays Digg’s hands even as he shouts back at Felicity that they _can’t_ wait.

“How are we supposed to explain this?” Felicity argues back, as riled up and frightened as he is. “Everyone’s going to find out Oliver’s the vigilante!”

Which is practically the only reason John hasn’t already dialed. But Felicity knows the truth as well as he does. “Which won’t matter if he’s dead,” John replies anyway. Felicity snatches the phone from his hand and Diggle blurts out exactly what he knows Felicity doesn’t want to hear, isn’t quite willing to face. “Felicity, we can’t save him!”

“I know – you’re right!” Felicity says. Instead of unraveling at the thought, at the knowledge and certainty that Oliver will die without help other than their own, Felicity seems to straighten. John recognizes the look on her face. She has an idea. “ _We_ can’t,” she emphasizes.

John’s left fingers curl tightly against his side as he prevents himself from snatching his phone back and calling an ambulance right then and there. Instead he listens carefully to Felicity’s plan.

Oliver… Oliver might hate them for it, in the end. He might not. But either way he’ll be alive, and his secret will (probably) be safe. That’s good enough for John.

(They just got him _back_ , they just started working as a _team_ again. John’s heart aches at the thought of putting up barriers between them again. But Oliver will be alive. He’ll _live_. John can handle anything else that comes after that.)

* * *

Barry Allen’s still at the train station, having missed the last train for the night. John’s never been more grateful for someone being late to something in his life. He takes deep breaths for a moment, calming the relief racing through him and steadying his hand.

The tranquilizer dart flies true.

* * *

With little time to waste, they’d only put enough juice in the tranquilizer to knock Allen out during transport back to Verdant. He stirs a bit in the car, no matter that Digg’s going as fast as he can, then wakes only shortly after Digg deposits him on the stool. He carefully arranges Oliver on the medical table, letting Felicity watch over Allen as he wakes – whatever he thinks of the kid and his lies, he’s not a physical threat.

John turns back to the scientist just as he blinks himself awake, hoping they haven’t just made a colossal mistake – that Allen won’t betray them, that Oliver won’t hate them for this. That Allen even has the skills to save Oliver in the first place.

It takes Allen a moment, with the grogginess of the tranquilizer still affecting him, to realize where he is, but not long. With the way the lair’s set up it is immediately obvious that they are in the Green Arrow’s base of operations. Allen’s eyes spot the empty mannikin first, then the bow and arrows (carefully replaced on the rack by Felicity, who’d distracted herself from her worry about Oliver’s life by worrying about what he might think if he woke to find they’d left his bow behind). Then Allen spots the Green Arrow – Oliver, unmasked, lying unconscious in front of him.

Felicity steps forward from the side where she’d been waiting for Allen to wake – and it’s not just that Allen isn’t a threat, that’s strategy on John’s part. Allen trusts Felicity, probably has a crush on her even. Felicity told him that he’s a vigilante fan too, so he’d probably help Oliver anyway, but John wasn’t willing to take any chances.

“Please save my friend,” Felicity says, earnest and desperate and sincere all at once.

Allen’s wide eyes switch to her anxious gaze. He flusters for a moment, fumbles and stumbles over his words and hesitates, but there’s a man dying in front of him, and whatever his doubts he jumps to it as Felicity fills him in on the situation as quickly as she can, keeping things brief – in a fight, injected with something, unconscious since then…

John’s own mind switches to the clear focus he’s familiar with from the military, aware of nothing in his surroundings but what he’s focused on. It’s the sort of focus that can only come when you know someone’s watching your back. He doesn’t know if he trusts Allen or not, doesn’t know if he’s done the right thing or not, but this is not the time for that. He can worry about all that later. Allen isn’t a physical threat. Instead he does what Allen says to do when Allen tells him to do it, focused on nothing more or less than keeping Oliver alive. (Oliver will die if they _don’t_ do anything, so this? This is better than nothing.)

As Allen scrambles around the area, picking at their scant medical supplies, glancing at Oliver’s readouts, he talks. Rambles, actually, some of it information he probably doesn’t need to say out loud, but he gives orders too, and John starts doing chest compressions as instructed, freezes when he sees the kid pick up rat poison, then prays to _someone_ that he’s made the right choice as he lets Allen give it to Oliver.

John’s never really been a religious man but… _God please let him live,_ he prays as Oliver starts to flatline. It’s not the first time he’s done so. Despite how much he hates the feeling, he hopes it won’t be the last.

* * *

* * *

_December 9, 2013, morning:_

Oliver wakes in an instant, body aching and sore, to the sight of an unfamiliar face leaning over him. The last thing he remembers is fighting the Mirakuru solider and his body reacts without him even needing to think about it, overcoming his exhaustion and the pain in his bones. His arm reaches forward and grabs the man’s throat, fingers tightening. The man starts to gasp, eyes going wide in alarm.

A hand grabs his other arm, firm and insistent but not tight, trying to tug him backward. “Oliver, let him go.”

Digg. That’s Digg’s voice. Oliver’s awareness snaps into focus, though his confusion doesn’t entirely let up, as Felicity too shouts his name.

His hand releases the man – the kid, Barry Allen – and he folds in on himself for but a moment, regaining control, recovering. (Fighting to stay awake and alert through the pain.)

“What the hell is going on?” he gasps out. They’re at Verdant. They’re at Verdant and Barry Allen is there with them, coughing slightly as he recovers from Oliver’s grip and staring at Oliver in the Arrow’s costume.

“You were injected with a strong-acting blood coagulant,” Felicity says loudly, in a way that tells Oliver that she’s not pleased with how he reacted.

Like he could have stopped himself. But Oliver doesn’t bother trying to explain that to her. The kid is standing again, talking.

“You would have stroked out,” he starts, pausing to clear his throat again, “but fortunately you had a very effective blood thinner handy. Warfarin. Better known as rat poison.”

“Kid saved your life, Oliver,” Digg says from behind him.

Still with one hand on the table for support, breathing harder than usual and barely upright, Oliver takes a moment to process what they’re saying. They told Barry Allen his secret. They gave away his identity without asking him, without doing a background check. They showed Allen his headquarters, let him see who his partners were.

They did it to save his life.

“This is the point in a lifesaving emergency where you thank the person that did the lifesaving,” Felicity says, voice still hard and loud, like she’s upset with Oliver.

Oliver turns to face her, still keeping a hand on the table, still unsteady, confusion on his face. (He doesn’t worry about turning his back on Allen, though some part of him stays taut and ready. Allen’s not a physical threat, even in Oliver’s condition.) Really? That’s what Felicity’s choosing to focus on here? If Allen wasn’t here he’d let himself collapse again, sink down onto the table, or maybe the stool that Allen’s hovering by, and give himself a moment to recover. But he can’t do that, because his partners brought a stranger into their base who’s now seen him at his weakest.

“You told him who I am,” Oliver says, still processing it, still trying to understand.

“Yeah, I did,” Felicity says defiantly, if softly, without a trace of an apology in her tone.

Oliver stares at her, incredulous. _They did it to save your life,_ his inner voice reminds him. They’d just gotten their partnership back on track, and now Felicity and Diggle have betrayed his trust again. _You knew this would happen eventually,_ an old, familiar tone says, that inner voice that once made a bullet to the brain look friendly. _You knew it was too good to be true._

_They saved your life_ , the other voice repeats.

Oliver shakes his head, lost in a sea of uncertainty. He doesn’t ever like having missing time.

He was injected with a strong-acting blood coagulant, Felicity had said, and then Allen had used warfarin – rat poison – to thin his blood. Clearly it had worked – Oliver’s not doubting the effectiveness of Allen’s methods. But how had he gotten back to the foundry, how had they gotten Allen there, what has happened in the time since he’d fallen unconscious? (Nearly died, not just unconscious, but that’s just semantics.)

“Watch him,” he says to Digg, stumbling past his partners (still?) on the way to the bathroom.

Digg nods once, concerned gaze sweeping over Oliver.

“Where are you going?” Felicity calls after him, still clearly annoyed.

Oliver ignores her, slipping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind him in a search for privacy he wouldn’t have felt the need to go looking for if Allen wasn’t in the foundry with them. Closed off from the rest of the foundry, Oliver grasps either side of the sink in his hands and lets himself slump over, lets his breathing grow more ragged as he tries to contain his emotions while at the same time letting his exhaustion show. He _aches_ , and not just from the drugs in his system but from the beating he’d just taken… however long ago it had been. His chest hurts and his arms are trembling and now he has definite proof that there’s someone out there dosed with Mirakuru.

Oliver thinks back to the conversation he’d had with the single-minded thief. That man didn’t seem to have had the brains to be behind the conversation. He’d told Oliver that he’d been ‘saved’ with the Mirakuru by his ‘brother’. Blood relative or not, it means someone else is calling the shots, and it means that someone else has plans to make more of it.

And Felicity and Digg have brought someone else into it. How much have they told him? How much can Oliver trust them anymore, if they’re going to make calls like this?

But it’s because he still trusts them that he can take this moment to himself, shut himself off in the bathroom with a stranger in the foundry. And they don’t have the training he does, the life experiences. They don’t know how quickly a friend can become an enemy, or the kind of secrets someone can hide in their past.

Sure, Oliver’d run a background check on Allen, but it’d been a cursory one, a surface scan designed to detect any anomalies. He hadn’t gone deep enough to see if Allen’s identity was even real in the first place.

Oliver’s fingers clench tighter on the porcelain in his hands. He doesn’t need this. Not right now. Not with Mirakuru on the streets and his mother’s trial at the end of the month and the fact that Thea now knows the truth about his identity. But Felicity and Diggle have taken his choice from him. They’ve put them _all_ at risk – not just him. Surely they have to see that? Digg, at least, even if Felicity is blinded by her trust in Allen.

Oliver shakes his head, gritting his teeth, taking deep breaths. Allen first. Then he needs some rest – whether he wants it or not, he needs at least a few hours of real sleep, not just unconsciousness.

Then he goes after the Mirakuru.

The question is, does he keep Felicity and Digg out of it? Does he keep them safe?

Last night, he might have only briefly considered the idea before tossing it – they’re partners again. They’ve agreed to work together. But now…

_They saved your life_ , Oliver’s inner voice repeats yet again. His own unsteady body reminds him well enough of that.

The problem is, Oliver’s hasn’t placed much value on his own life in a long time, and it’s not just his life they’ve put in jeopardy. It’s their own. It’s Tommy’s, and Thea’s. It’s his mother and Laurel’s, if Allen tells someone else. It’s Allen’s life, if someone figures out that Allen knows something about the Arrow. It’s the entire city, if this is the end of the Arrow before he can take out whoever’s making the Mirakuru. Even if he’d died, Digg and Felicity have enough information to at least keep investigating the Mirakuru, passing on whatever they find to the police.

But he’s still here, and so’s Allen. Oliver didn’t get a say in that. He does get a say in what happens next.

Oliver unclenches his hands and jaw, straightens where he stands and takes another deep breath. He straightens his jacket, zipping it up again. He keeps his hood down. There’s no point in putting it back up again.

Allen’s sitting on the stool again, alternating between awed glances around the foundry and nervous glances at Digg. Felicity’s tapping her fingers against her leg, buoyed up by a similar anxious energy. Digg stands tense too, body angled so that he can keep an eye on Allen and the bathroom door at the same time. He’s the first to spot Oliver and he quirks a concerned eyebrow that Oliver assumes is more likely asking after his health than if Oliver’s okay with what he and Felicity had done.

Oliver’s jaw clenches again but he nods slightly in acknowledgement. He’s fine. He’s standing, anyway, walking around. That’s healthy enough for him.

Felicity spots him next, starting as if she wants to step toward him but pulling back at the last moment.

Oliver steps up to the medical table, ignoring her as his eyes go straight for Allen.

“I don’t trust you,” he grits out, keeping his voice fierce. Allen needs to know what he’s been brought into here.

“I do,” Felicity blurts in at Oliver’s side, tone certain.

Oliver ignores that too, focusing on the way Allen swallows instead. He’s nervous. Good. He should be.

“If it had been up to me, you wouldn’t be here,” Oliver continues.

Felicity moves to speak again, but she catches a quick shake of Digg’s head and falls silent, if reluctantly.

“How do I know you won’t go straight to the police when you leave here?”

Allen shakes his head emphatically. “I… I won’t,” he says quickly. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Oliver pushes the medical table aside and takes a step forward. Allen unconsciously leans back where he sits before he catches himself and attempts to straighten again. “How do I _know_ that?” Oliver repeats, turning his words into a threat.

But Allen doesn’t back down. If anything, the attempt at appearing threatening only seems to make him grow bolder. He stands, taking his own small step toward Oliver. “I won’t, I promise,” he says, and he’s either a very good liar or very sincere. As much as Oliver’s paranoia wants to think the first option is true, his gut says it’s the latter.

He turns back to Digg. “Did he see anything?”

Digg shakes his head. “We tranq’ed him.”

Not that it’d be hard to figure out where they are, now that he knows the Arrow is Oliver Queen. But it’s something.

“He saved your _life_ ,” Felicity buts in. “How is this any different from when your mother shot you and you came to me for help?”

(“Your mother shot you?” Allen asks in horror in the background.)

“Or when you brought Digg down here when he was poisoned with curare?”

She really doesn’t see the difference. After all this time, she doesn’t understand how hard it had been even to do those things, to trust them. How much he still struggles with trusting them.

“The difference is,” he replies, low and fierce, “that I did my homework on both of you.” He’s staring at Allen as he says it though, not Felicity.

Allen shakes his head. “I _won’t_ tell anyone,” he repeats a third time. “But… if they hadn’t brought me here, you’d be dead right now. Maybe you should think of that.”

Oliver has. He’s not sure it makes enough of a difference to him, but he’s certainly not going to say that out loud. And as much as he, oddly enough, believes Allen, he knows that not _intending_ to tell anyone and actually not saying anything are two completely different things. It’s a risk he’d taken with Diggle, with Felicity, with Tommy and Thea. A chance that they might let something slip by accident, or that a skilled interrogator could get something out of them without them ever being the wiser.

Now he has to let this Allen kid go back to Central City – halfway across the country – and trust that not even a hint of what he now knows passes through his lips. Oliver doesn’t think he has that kind of trust in him.

But what else can he do? Oliver contemplates for a moment stopping Allen from leaving – he could, it would be so easy – but he knows he would never. He’s not that person anymore.

His limbs ache and his chest feels heavy. He’s probably covered in bruises from being slammed around by the thief – from nearly dying. He’d almost died. Again. (Over and over and over… Oliver’s just waiting for the day when it finally sticks.)

There’s Mirakuru out there. His identity’s been spilled to a near complete stranger, but there’s nothing more he can do about Allen. The decision has already been made. Just when he thought there might be a possibility that he and Felicity and Digg were entering a rhythm again…

But the Mirakuru’s more important than his identity, more important than the betrayal before him ( _to save your life_ ), more important than his near-death experience and the wounds he accumulated in the process.

“That man that I fought in the bunker,” Oliver says, pushing aside everything else, leaving it to be dealt with later, ignoring Allen for the moment, “he has what he needs to mass produce the serum from the island. And we have to stop him.” He’s still breathing hard from the argument, from the shock of waking up as he had, but his tone is determined. They _have_ to stop him. There’s no other alternative.

“He touched your skin when he grabbed your neck,” Allen cuts in, “I was able to absorb the residual oils from his skin, which, when added to a gel-based polymer, might be able to recreate his fingerprint.”

Forensic scientist, Oliver remembers belatedly. This is his job. (What else had Diggle and Felicity allowed him to do while Oliver had lain there unconscious and half-dead? He doesn’t ask.)

“Do that then,” Oliver says harshly. He almost throws a look at Digg, almost silently asks his friend to make sure Allen doesn’t do anything or touch anything he isn’t supposed to. But he’s not so certain anymore that Digg still has his back. Maybe he and Felicity had only come back to do things their way, not his.

( _They saved your life,_ Oliver’s thoughts tell him once again. The problem is, he’s not sure if that matters to him. Not as much as it seems to matter to them.)

The fingerprint will take time though, and right now Oliver doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t _need_ to be here. After nearly dying, he needs a few moments of real sleep. And there are other leads he can follow up on that don’t require anything in the foundry, including his partners.

He sweeps from the room without another word. Let them handle the mess they’ve made.

* * *

* * *

_December 9, 2013, late morning:_

Thea knows – she _knows_ , with absolute certainty – that Oliver has been injured as the Green Arrow before. That is an unquestionable fact. She knows there are injuries she was only ever slightly made aware of – like his motorcycle accident last Christmas that she’s now connected to the Green Arrow’s disappearance for a month – and she’s been around Roy long enough to know that there are probably other injuries he’d kept hidden.

So the truth is that every injury he’s gotten as the Green Arrow she’s learned about after the fact and was never told the real way he’d gotten them and was probably not told the extent of them either.

But finding out he’s injured after the fact, when she _already knows he’s the Green Arrow_ … It’s agonizing. It’s part of the reason she still wants to help.

She hasn’t exactly started waiting up for Oliver, or anything like that, but most nights she’s working a shift at Verdant anyway, so she tends to stay up upon coming home until he gets back too. Sunday night – or rather, early Monday morning – Oliver doesn’t get back before she wanders up to bed. Not a big deal, in and of itself. He’s mentioned that he does research, during the daylight hours, or sometimes he goes out to breakfast with Tommy. And he’s still got Queen Consolidated to deal with, and she knows they’d just been robbed, so she imagines him busy and slips under her covers without a second thought. CEOs don’t always get weekends off and vigilantes definitely don’t and she’s got a lot on her mind between Verdant and classes and the disappearance of Sin’s friend Max.

When he does come home though, when he finally walks back through that door…

The rug gets pulled out under Thea’s carefully managed delusions. All this time, these past two weeks or so that she’s known about his secret, she’s been deluding herself that he knows what he’s doing. And maybe he does – she doesn’t know anything about that really – but the sight of him, shoulders bowed with exhaustion or pain, bags under his eyes, almost limping, reminds her of why she’d wanted Roy to stay away from the Green Arrow in the first place.

What he does is dangerous. It could kill him. That’s why she’d never wanted anything to do with vigilantes. She’s never had much of a problem with the Green Arrow, especially not after he’d stopped the miniquake from being something much worse. But the Green Arrow has been chased by the police, shot at, _shot_ , stabbed, beaten. He’s jumped off buildings with little more than a zip line and raced down crowded streets at well over the speed limit on his motorcycle. He’s dealt with murderers and drug dealers and one-percenter criminals who don’t care about whose lives they step on (and are perfectly fine with hiring assassins to clean up anyone who gets in their way). That was why she’d wanted nothing to do with him, wanted _Roy_ to have nothing to do with him.

Except now she knows it’s not just the Green Arrow who’s done those things, or had those things done to him. It’s Oliver. It’s her brother. Her big brother, who she absolutely _cannot_ lose again.

She hadn’t lied, when she’d thanked him for what he’s done. _He’s_ the one who stopped their mother, Tommy’s father. _He’s_ the one who’d saved thousands of lives in the Glade – including Roy, and Sin. Everything he’s done is so impressive, so awe-inspiring. But he’d almost gotten killed doing it. And seeing him like this, Thea’s mind can’t conveniently ignore that fact any longer.

“Oh my God,” she breathes out, hand over her mouth as she stares in horror. She wants to run to him but her feet are frozen to the floor. “Oliver! What… what happened?!”

Oliver freezes at the sight of her, eyes flickering over to her own frozen form. There’s surprise in his expression, like he wasn’t expecting to see her. “Thea?” he asks in reply. “What are you doing here?”

Thea takes a step forward. “You’re… you’re alright?” She reaches a hand out, as though wanting to touch him, but she’s not close enough for that yet.

Oliver straightens, expression blanking, and maybe he’s trying to be reassuring but the movement only serves to contrast how bad he’d looked before. “It’s Monday,” he reminds her. “I thought you had lunch planned with Laurel.” His words are blank and emotionless. Matter-of-fact. He’s not answering her questions.

_He didn’t want me to see this,_ Thea’s mind fills her in. _He didn’t think I was going to be here._

“She canceled,” she says hurriedly, not even bothering to mention Max because that’s not important, that’s not the _point_ here. “Something came up. What _happened_?”

Oliver pauses, clearly considering what to say next.

“And don’t you dare lie to me,” Thea cuts in. “Not anymore. You’ve got no reason to – I know the truth.” Does she though? Has he really told her everything? How much is he still keeping from her? Anger is replacing some of her worry at the way her brother is reacting, the way he’s still hiding things from her, had clearly never intended to tell her anything about whatever this is. (No, she’s not angry at him. She’s angry with herself, for forgetting that _this_ is a part of the Green Arrow too, that she’d always known what the vigilante – hero – does is dangerous, she’d just let herself forget that when she found out it was Oliver. When she’d found out that her brother was helping the city in a way she’s failed to do.)

“I made a mistake,” he says simply. “I’m fine now.”

Not a lie, maybe, but it’s not what Thea had wanted to hear either.

“Oliver,” she says strongly, stepping in front of him, “tell me what happened.” God, she wants so badly to help, but she can’t do that if she doesn’t know what’s going on. Does she want him to stop being the Green Arrow just to avoid the danger? Does she want him to tell her every detail about when he gets hurt? She doesn’t know what she wants other than that she wants it to be the _truth_.

Oliver shakes his head, seemingly angry almost, though Thea couldn’t say at what.

“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he says firmly, harshly, and then _limps_ past her, face an emotionless mask.

Thea gapes after him, beyond worried. Way back when, when she was a little kid and Oliver was a fun-loving teenager, she’d seem him complain at even a papercut. Oh he’d laugh about it back then, every bruise and ache he gained from his recklessness – he’d wink at her over the unsuspecting heads of the people he was duping with his exaggerated pain – but he’d never bothered to hide an injury.

It’s that, more than seeing him breaking them out of the room they’d been trapped in, more than seeing his lair under Verdant, more than connecting his absent nature since he’s gotten home with the vigilante’s activities, that finally lets Thea realize how serious this all is.

* * *

The phone ringing distracts Tommy from his paperwork and he glances over at the screen to see Thea’s name in bold print. A smile crosses his face. He wants this clinic, more than he’s wanted most other things in his life (things – not people; wanting Laurel, wanting Oliver to come back from the dead… those feelings will always be stronger) but the paperwork involved is very, very monotonous. With Laurel at work, a break is welcome.

“Hey, Thea,” he says as he answers, finally ignoring the papers in front of him as he leans back in his chair. “What’s going on?”

“Please tell me you know,” Thea says frantically, in a tone half panicked and half frustrated that has Tommy sitting up again from his relaxed pose almost instantaneously. “I couldn’t think of anyone else who would. I mean, there’s Laurel, but she doesn’t _act_ like she knows and Roy definitely doesn’t know and I thought… I even considered Walter, ‘cause of the whole kidnapping thing, but then I remembered all the fights you and Oliver kept having the past year –”

Tommy’d already felt a shiver through his spine and a twist of anxiety through his gut at Thea’s first words, but the mention of Oliver nearly confirms his fears. _Please tell me that you know_ , Thea had said frantically. There’s only one thing that can mean.

“Whoa, Thea, slow down,” he interrupts, surprised to find that, however much it sounds like Thea is near tears, his own eyes are starting to water now too. Is this it? Is this the call he’s been dreading for months? (And when did Thea find out?) “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know!” Thea exclaims, frustration overtaking her panic for a moment. “He won’t tell me anything and I –”

Tommy doesn’t care that he’s interrupting her. “But he’s alright?” he cuts in.

“He _says_ he is but he’s barely walking upright, except he refuses to tell me what’s going on and –”

In her panic, Thea isn’t getting what Tommy is asking – maybe the thought of Oliver bleeding out alone in a dark alley hasn’t occurred to her yet, doesn’t haunt her nightmares – but she’s given him enough information. Oliver’s injured but upright and walking, if with difficulty. That’s all he needs to know. (It’s not much – he’s seen Oliver completely ignore injuries when he was around – but it’s all he needs to know for now.)

“Thea,” he interrupts firmly. She stops babbling. “He’s at the house?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Tommy hangs up without further comment, already on his feet and heading for his coat and keys. As he rides the elevator down – it’s too slow, far too slow – he keeps his phone out and sends a quick group text to Digg and Felicity.

_Thea called_ , he writes. _Wht hppnd???_ His fingers move too quickly to spell out the words, or to ask a more complicated question, but his text gets the point across. The elevator stops and he shoves his phone back in his pocket, hurrying for his car.

Traffic is far, far too slow, just like the elevator’s torturous crawl downward had been, but Tommy doesn’t dare speed. He can’t risk getting pulled over and being delayed any further than he already has been. His phone chimes at some point during the drive too but he waits until he roars up the Queen’s long driveway, screeches to a halt outside the front doors, and exits his vehicle before he even attempts to look at it. He only catches a glimpse of Digg’s name on the screen before he’s ripping open the front doors without bothering to knock.

Thea’s pacing in the front lobby and she meets his gaze without hesitation as he enters. She rushes to him, hesitates for a moment, then swallows him up in a huge.

She is _seriously_ worried, Tommy realizes, which shakes him out of his own worry for Oliver long enough for him to return her hug wholeheartedly. Oliver might be the one who’s injured but he’s not the only one suffering here. And Thea’d said she hadn’t been able to get him to talk. Tommy can only hope that he’ll have better luck.

“Where is he?” he asks when they pull apart enough for him to meet Thea’s eyes again. (She’s like a sister to him. Especially when it comes to how they both feel about Oliver. Neither of them completely let go of the other.)

“Upstairs.” Thea shakes her head. “He closed his door…”

Stupid, stubborn, foolish Oliver, who thinks he can shield them all from the horrors of the world by pretending they don’t exist. He doesn’t have a problem with going out there and facing evil day after day but he’d rather Tommy and Thea and Laurel and everyone else just pretend the world is fine and leave the hard tasks to him.

(Also, Tommy knows, what Oliver has suffered is… Well, it’s bad. He doesn’t blame Oliver for finding it hard to talk about and he probably knows less than one percent of what his best friend had gone through. But that doesn’t mean he needs to keep deliberately closing that door between them.)

“C’mon,” Tommy says, keeping a hold of one of Thea’s hands as he tugs her towards the stairs after him. “Between the two of us we can make him talk.” He is, of course, very curious as to how and why and when Thea found out the truth (and why Oliver didn’t tell him she had) but that can wait until after he knows Oliver is alright, isn’t bleeding to death on his bedroom floor out of pure stubbornness.

Thea follows after him easily, though her expression is hesitant. Maybe she’s wondering the same thing he is, underneath her worry for Oliver. Wondering when he’d found out and why Oliver had told him first and why Oliver hadn’t told her that he already knew. Evidently, if she is, she decides the same thing as him though, and doesn’t ask.

Oliver’s bedroom door is closed and Tommy almost doesn’t bother to knock, not wanting to give Oliver the chance to turn them away, but he hesitates at the last moment. _What if Oliver’s, I don’t know, changing his bandages or something?_ He wonders. Has Thea seen his scars? Would Oliver want Thea to see his injuries? Does _Tommy_ want to see his injuries?

The answer, if he’s being quite honest with himself, is no.

He knocks.

There seems to be a moment of hesitation too, between Tommy’s knock and Oliver’s reply, but eventually a short “Come in,” comes from behind the closed door.

Tommy glances over at an anxious Thea, then pushes open the door.

* * *

Oliver stands stock still in front of his window, angled so that his back isn’t quite towards them, so that he can see them in his peripheral vision. He doesn’t look their way when they enter but he undoubtedly knows they’re there. Except for the slight rise and fall of his chest he looks almost like a statue carved from stone, solid and unmovable.

Thea’s righteous indignation and worry falters in the face of his blank expression and distant eyes. Whatever she’d been about to say dies in her throat. _Oliver_. It’s almost like looking back at the first few nights he’d been home, when she’d been too blind and stupid to really see that he hadn’t trusted his surroundings.

“Oliver,” Tommy says out loud, seemingly swallowing down his own worry. (She’d been right – Tommy _had_ known. Who else does?) “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” Oliver says simply, blankly. There is none of the tightly controlled frustration Thea had seen earlier. If it wasn’t for the fact that she already knows he’s injured, she might have accepted the answer.

Maybe not though, considering the horrifying lack of emotion she’s seeing at the moment. Oliver’s words had been simple but not… reassuring. They’d lacked conviction.

“ _Oliver_ ,” Tommy says, a bit more strongly as he takes a forceful step forward.

Oliver finally turns his heads, gaze lingering lightly over Tommy’s form for a moment before his eyes flicker to Thea. Something in his eyes hardens ever so slightly. “It’s nothing,” he repeats, his words also stronger.

“It’s _not_ nothing! You’re injured and you’re trying to hide it! I know the truth now, Oliver, why won’t you just tell me!”

“Because you don’t need to be a part of this!” Oliver shoots back suddenly, inhaling in rage as his gaze latches onto Thea’s own. “Because this has nothing do to with you! Because this is dangerous, and I never wanted either of you getting involved!”

“So you can handle it but we can’t?”

“Yes.” Oliver’s single word is harsh and grinding. Final.

But Thea can’t accept that. She won’t.

“Who gave you the right to make that decision?!”

Oliver’s jaw clenches. “I’m not involving you in this. Either of you. That’s final.”

Thea steps forward, filled with rage, but a soft hand on her arm stops her. She glances back at Tommy, furious, but reigns herself in as she sees the way he’s studying Oliver. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Tommy look that intense or serious about anything, except maybe Laurel.

“Oliver,” Tommy says softly, without any of the rage that she and her brother have been throwing back and forth at each other. “You don’t want to tell us what happened, that’s fine. We don’t need to know. We’re not here about that, we’re here for you.”

Wordlessly, Oliver glances away, jaw still tight, gaze going distant as he stares out the window.

Tommy tugs Thea back to his side. She’s still frustrated by her brother’s stubbornness, but she doesn’t fight him.

“Are you alright? Physically?” Tommy asks softly and sincerely, eyes full of concern.

Thea feels a small wave of shame. Here she is yelling at her brother for not telling her exactly what happened while all Tommy can think of is whether or not Oliver’s alright. What kind of sister does that make her?

Oliver’s fingers twitch at his side. He glances back toward them briefly before turning back to the window.

_Deciding how much to tell us_ , Thea thinks with irritation, but she follows Tommy’s lead and stays silent, waiting for Oliver to respond.

“I took a few hits,” Oliver says tightly. “Could use some sleep. But it’s nothing serious.” He glances over at Tommy, and that’s galling too, that he’s more willing to talk to Tommy about this sort of thing, nevermind that they’re both in the room so he’s technically telling both of them. “No open wounds.”

Tommy nods once. “We’ll have dinner ready when you wake up,” he says before tugging on Thea’s arm again. Thea almost fights him, turning back to glance at Oliver as they leave the room, but she’s frightened and confused and angry and she lets herself be guided again.

“What was that all about?” she asks in an angry whisper as Tommy shuts Oliver’s door behind them.

Tommy jerks his head to the side, asking her to step away. They make their way to the stairs.

“I don’t know how long you’ve known,” Tommy says, low and cautious, “or what you know. But we don’t need to press Oliver about this while he’s injured. It can wait at least until he’s had a few hours of sleep.”

Thea grits her teeth, all too aware of her own impatience, but concedes the point. “Fine,” she says, “but in the meantime, you’re telling me what _you_ know.”

“I’ll tell you some of it,” Tommy says simply, unimpressed by her anger. “But the rest of it is Oliver’s to tell.”

Tommy doesn’t have the same angry stubbornness that she and Oliver seem to share, but Thea can tell he won’t budge on that. Still, she intends to get as much out of him as she can.

* * *

* * *

_December 9, 2013, early evening:_

Frustration and anger rage within Oliver, most of it self-directed, despite the sleep he’d managed to get. There is a man out there fueled with Mirakuru’s strength and carrying the equipment to make massive amounts more of it, a man he’d barely escaped from with his life. He’d gone into a fight distracted, letting the threat of Mirakuru overwhelm his sense of caution, and Felicity and Diggle had decided to bring a complete stranger in on his secret in order to save his life.

Oliver knows nothing about Barry Allen – _nothing_ – and he has no idea what the man will do with the knowledge he has just acquired. And then there’s Tommy and Thea, and the fact that he’d let them see him injured, in his weaker moments, that he hadn’t considered that when he’d returned to the manor, that he’d slipped up let again.

How had he ever thought that bringing them into this was a good idea? How could he have ever considered that involving them in this life would be good for them?

The pain he feels right now is nothing. His near-death experience is nothing. It is meaningless. This is not about _him_. There are Mirakuru enhanced people out there that the Arrow has now made an enemy of, if he hadn’t been their enemy already. How could he have let Tommy become involved in this, how could he have told Thea the truth?

_Because they deserve to know_ , some part of him whispers, the part of him that felt ashamed to yell at his family – at his sister and his brother, no matter that Tommy isn’t related by blood. But they don’t deserve this. Tommy’s face, twisted in pain as Helena twisted his arm behind his back, flashes through Oliver’s mind. How could he have forgotten that? Tommy hadn’t even really been a part of the Arrow’s activities back then, and he’d still been in danger.

_Tommy’s had plenty of time to back out_ , the same small voice whispers. Oliver shoves it down and squashes it violently. Tommy doesn’t know all the facts, doesn’t know enough to make a properly informed decision.

Tommy doesn’t know what it feels like to have a bullet rip through your gut or hunger chew at your insides or another man’s blood on your hands.

And Oliver doesn’t ever want him to know, doesn’t ever want him or Thea to have to go through anything remotely similar to the experiences he’d had during his five years away. He doesn’t want it for Felicity or Diggle either, for that matter, and now he’s second guessing that partnership again too.

Diggle, at least, is a soldier. He knows what it’s like to fight and kill and watch your friends die around you, even if he’s never been pushed to the extremes of those experiences like Oliver has. Felicity though…

_“We can protect her,”_ he’d told Diggle, when they’d first brought Felicity into it. He still wants to believe that that’s true. Wants to believe that it applies to Thea and Tommy too.

But there’s a man walking around out there with Mirakuru in his veins. Oliver’d barely been able to keep himself alive, let alone anyone else, the last time that had happened. This time, his track record is actually worse. He knows he’d be dead if not for Felicity and Digg and Allen. He can’t let his family and friends get hurt, he can’t.

Tommy and Thea are waiting for him downstairs he knows, with dinner and questions ready. He doesn’t know how they’ll take it if he doesn’t meet them down there. Not well. And Oliver doesn’t want to lose those relationships. But… it’s Mirakuru, and he’s _scared_.

He slips out the window and makes his way to Verdant without either of them the wiser.

* * *

“Where’s Thea?” Sin asks, when Roy shows up without his ever-present girlfriend at his side. (Not that she minds so much, anymore. The princess is starting to grow on her.)

“Couldn’t come,” Roy answers, shaking his head. “Something came up with Oliver, apparently.”

He sounds like he doesn’t know what to think about that. Quite frankly, Sin doesn’t either. Oliver Queen was a spoiled billionaire playboy who spent five years alone on a deserted island, somehow surviving against all odds. She doesn’t know what to think of the man. But, quite frankly, she doesn’t really care either. The only reason she sometimes thinks about Oliver Queen at all is because Thea has (somehow) become her friend.

And, lately, because Thea was kidnapped, and Oliver along with her. “Did you ever…?” she starts, not entirely clear of how she wants to frame her question.

“Figure out what the hell happened?” Roy asks, bitterness evident in his tone.

Sin nods. She’s well aware of white privilege, and rich-people privilege, and especially white rich people privilege, but there’s a difference between sweeping a drunken misdemeanor under the rug and an entire _kidnapping_. Thea Queen had been kidnapped, and her brother too apparently, but there hasn’t been one hint of a whisper in the news about it. The police investigation is closed. Thea and Oliver have been returned home and refuse to talk about what happened. It’s downright suspicious. If it hadn’t been for Roy’s broken wrist and bruised face, Sin might have assumed that something else had happened entirely, and that Thea had been lying to her.

But Thea wouldn’t lie about Roy’s safety, and they’d both been genuinely worried and relieved when they’d collapsed into each other’s arms that morning, Thea unable to say how she had gotten free.

“No,” Roy admits, disgruntled. “Thea said she wasn’t allowed to talk about it. We’re not even supposed to tell people she was kidnapped. Something about creating a false sense of security.”

Sin shares a look with Roy and knows they’re both thinking the same thing – who on Earth would they tell? The few friends each of them do have in the Glades aren’t the kind they talk to about their respective relationships with Thea Queen. Those that wouldn’t hate her on sight would never believe that she’s a part of their lives.

But Thea _is_ Sin’s friend now, and as much as Sin doesn’t entirely understand what happened that night, there are more important things on her mind.

“Is she alright?” Or, well, Oliver is the one she should be asking about, she supposes, but she doesn’t know Oliver Queen and, rude though it may make her, she doesn’t really care what’s going on with him. He’s not her friend.

Roy grimaces, shrugs. “She’s still… shaken. Said we might have to take things a little slow for a while, you know, with our plans and stuff.” He shakes his head, as though clearing his own worried thoughts from the front of his mind. “Anyway, she asked me to keep her updated. What’s up?”

To be honest, Sin’s sort of been dreading that question, ignoring the fear churning in the back of her gut in favor of worrying about her new friend. It is much easier to think about Thea, who’d been through danger but came out of it seemingly unscathed, then about why she called Roy. She takes a moment to get her thoughts in order. 

“I… Someone said they found a body. Near Max’s place. Doesn’t…” she shakes her head. She can’t say it.

Roy says it for her. “That doesn’t mean it’s him.”

“I know,” she snaps back instantly, regretting it almost as immediately. She can’t blame Roy for having the guts to say what she couldn’t.

“I can –” Roy starts to offer.

Sin cuts him off. “No. No, I’ll… I can go. I just…” She can’t say that either, though she _knows_ it’s not a weakness to want to have your friends by your side.

Roy understands. He grew up in the Glades too, after all (still lives there, has yet to manage to get out). He gives her a soft smile, only slightly hampered by the worry in his eyes. (Worry for Thea, of course, but for her too, and her friend Max, who he doesn’t even know. He doesn’t see Sin’s hesitation as a weakness.)

“C’mon then?” he asks. “What’re we waiting for?”

* * *

It’s Max. It is Max. Lain across the garbage of an alleyway and surrounded by the kind of police caution tape Sin’s only ever really seen in TV shows. She freezes and then she lunges forward and time passes by in a weird blur as first a policeman pushes her back, Roy disappears from her side, and then reappears only to hustle her away.

“That’s not Max,” she says, frantic and tight, and the words are wrong because that _is_ Max, but… “Max wouldn’t –” she tries again, cutting herself off, too full of anger (of grief) to think straight.

“Cops are saying he ODed,” Roy says, light and careful.

“Fuck them,” Sin swears, remembering the cop’s hand on her arm, pushing her away from the crime scene. What do the cops know? When have they ever cared about people like her, people like Max?

“Could he have been using?” Roy asks carefully.

“No!” Sin bursts out, almost turning her anger on Roy. Except she knows – once she manages to force her brain to take a second to think about it – that he’s just trying to get all the facts straight. Roy’s got no more love for the cops than her. “He made extra cash donating blood,” she explains, reminds him. “You really think the hospital would let him be a donor if he was an addict?”

“I snapped a photo of the scene,” Roy tells her. “We’ll figure this out, I promise.”

Max is _dead_. Sin knows the statistics aren’t great for street kids but Max _wasn’t_ a street kid. He’d saved up his cash, scrounged a place to live, however shitty it had been. He hadn’t gotten _out_ – most people never got out of the Glades – but he’d had a roof over his head. When he’d gone missing, she’d desperately been hoping he was just shacked up with an acquaintance or friend she didn’t know, even if it wasn’t like him.

And now he’s lying dead in a pile of garbage.

Sin’s been a fan of the Arrow since his debut robbing Adam Hunt of forty-million dollars, but she’s also well aware that threats, violence, and thievery are not the only way to make the Glades a better place. She’s been the one cautioning restraint to Thea and Roy, telling them that Green Arrow has things well in hand so they might as well try and find another way to help people.

Anger buoys her up now, different than the everyday background anger she’s felt since leaving home. Meeting Roy and Thea – befriending Roy and Thea – has pulled the blinders off her eyes. She can’t be indifferent to how crappy life in the Glades is anymore. Can’t just consider it a shitty hand and move on.

Yeah, this is the Glades, and yeah, stuff like this happens. But Max didn’t do drugs. He didn’t overdose.

Which means he was murdered. And Sin’s determined to find out who killed him.

“C’mon Abercrombie,” she says to an expectant Roy. “Let’s go get your girlfriend. We have a murderer to find.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I actually got this chapter out at a reasonable hour today for once. And a continued thanks for all your wonderful comments, I think I've finally caught up at replying to them all! As I said, this plot point will go by quickly, so the next chapter, Chapter 27: Doubt, will be posted tomorrow.


	27. Doubt

_December 9, 2013, early evening:_

It’s not quite dark yet when Oliver leaves the mansion, and he’s willing to bet that Allen’s still in the foundry, so he’s not quite ready to return there just yet.

He’d thought he and Diggle and Felicity had been clicking together again. Maybe they had been. But they’ve also still been slightly on edge around each other, testing out the waters, unwilling to recreate the same issue that had caused the tension in the first place.

Oliver’d told them about ARGUS, and he’d seen the frustration in their eyes, the anger that he hadn’t told them before, but he’d also seen the way they’d held themselves back, responded calmly, thanked him for telling the truth. How much of that reaction was genuine? Does it matter? And is he only second guessing it now because they’d betrayed him to save his life?

The worst of it is, he can’t even dwell too long on the matter of Barry Allen knowing his secret. That cat’s out of the bag. Allen knows now, there’s no getting around it. And the Mirakuru is so much more important anyway.

Emotions cycle furiously through Oliver’s brain, over and over again in an unending cycle that he can’t seem to break because he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel, doesn’t know which reaction is the right one. He wants to keep his friends and family uninvolved with the Mirakuru but keeping any of them in the dark seems like it might be dangerous. (More dangerous than them knowing the truth, though?) He wants to be angry at Felicity and Diggle for betraying his secret but in doing so they saved his life. (Is it worth it though, if Allen tells someone?) He wants to be fearless enough to face down the Mirakuru enhanced individual in Star City, but he can’t stop thinking of Slade. (He’d barely beat Slade, and almost died this time – is he even capable of winning?)

The Mirakuru is what matters right now, stopping the men who’re planning to create such unfathomably large batches with their stolen supplies. He should take every resource he can get – let Diggle and Felicity remain involved, draw on all of Barry Allen’s skills, bring Roy into the loop, let Lance and the taskforce know what’s out there. Even tell Laurel and Thea, in two different ways, what’s out there, if it becomes relevant.

Instead he heads to his back-up base, still musty and dark. Mostly unused, and never occupied by anyone other than him. He’d started this crusade alone. He’d always imaged it would end with him alone too. Now he’s got two brilliant partners who’ve each saved his life, more than once. He’s working, more or less, with Quentin Lance and the SCPD. Laurel feeds him info about the one-percenters that come to CNRI, Roy feeds him info about crime on the streets of the Glades. Tommy’s known the truth for months now, Thea for a few weeks. Even Superman’s become a part of his efforts, having played no small part in saving Star City, asking Oliver for lessons on how to fight.

That’s a lot of people to have involved in his problems. _His_ problems, _his_ mess. His monster.

_They’ll be involved anyway, if the Mirakuru gets out,_ his thoughts tell him. _And you can’t do this alone_.

It’s not a matter of pride that has him considering doing it alone anyway. It’s a matter of safety.

_‘We can protect her,’_ he’d told Digg, oh so long ago when they’d first involved Felicity. (She’d only meant to stay for Walter, he remembers absently.) Now he is doubting that conviction.

Why? It was him who’d gotten hurt, hadn’t it been? Tommy’s kidnapping, his and Thea’s kidnappings… they had nothing to do with the Green Arrow, not really. And Thea couldn’t have escaped without knowing the truth about the Green Arrow. Being the Green Arrow is the only reason Tommy had been found as quickly as he had been.

In his secret secondary base, Oliver nocks one of his old bows, taking carefully even breaths as he takes aim at the center target. The arrow shoots straight to the bullseye – and straight through Shado’s head on the way there. Oliver flinches backward, badly, and stares at the face of a woman long dead. She stares back at him, sorrow in her eyes, expression otherwise calm.

“Shado?” Oliver says, shock coursing through him like a cold bucket of water dumped on his head. “You can’t be here.”

She’s not real. Oliver knows she isn’t real. (She _can’t_ be real.) But she looks real, and knowing that she isn’t really there doesn’t stop him from hearing what she has to say, in a voice that sounds exactly like hers had.

“I had to see you, had to warn you,” she replies, and her voice is just as soft and gentle as he remembers, tinged with concern and something that might have been love.

She’d died because of him. She’s _dead_ because of him. And yet she’s also here. She _can’t_ be here.

But she is. “Warn me?” he can’t help but ask. She isn’t real, but she’s talking to him all the same.

“You can't fight what's coming. Put down your bow. Take off my father's hood.”

Shado’d never backed down from a fight on the island. She would know – the real Shado – that Oliver can’t just let Mirakuru enhanced individuals run rampant over his city.

“I wear that hood to honor your father,” Oliver returns. “And to honor you.” Why is he talking to her? She _can’t_ be real. (But he misses her so much, despite how short of a time he’d actually had to get to know her.)

“If you want to honor me, stop fighting...and live,” she tells him, still soft and gentle, eyes sad. “Or everyone you love will die.”

What? Oliver blinks. That doesn’t make sense. That Shado would want him to live, yes, but… She’s confirming his worst fears. That involving everyone else in his crusade – putting them in the path of the Mirakuru – will only get them killed. Except not one of them has yet to be injured because of something Oliver did – or didn’t do – as the Green Arrow. Digg’s taken a few punches here and there, backing him up, and a few larger wounds when they’d faced Malcolm, and Felicity’d almost been caught in the earthquake before Superman had stopped it but…

He’s been opening up again. He’s let Thea in. He’s reconnected with Tommy. He’s trying to work with Digg and Felicity as a team. Friends, and not just partners. He’s been _trying_.

And now here Shado is ( _not_ Shado), telling him to just throw that all away.

“I fight to protect those I love,” he returns, hard but not harsh, because as much as he tells himself this _isn’t_ Shado, he can’t bring himself to scold her. She’s buried on Lian Yu next to his father.

She gives him a sad look in return. Oliver’s phone vibrates, and he glances away, and when he looks back she’s gone.

_She wasn’t real_ , he tells himself. But he still feels grief all over again at her absence.

There’s no time for that though. Mirakuru has found its way to the streets of Star City and there’s too much Oliver doesn’t know about the situation. Why _here_? Why, of all the places in the world the culprit could have gone with the serum, had they come to Star City, where he is? Do they know about his connection with the Mirakuru, about his time on the island? Or is it all just a coincidence, or is Mirakuru going to appear in other cities?

There’s too much unknown, too much rattling around Oliver’s head as he checks his phone to see a text from Diggle, and the biggest question is how much he’s going to involve his friends and family in everything that happens next.

Felicity, Digg, Tommy… They’ve all spent time questioning his decisions. They’ve all walked away at one point.

They’ve all come back.

That’s their choice, isn’t it? He can’t ask them to get involved in this. But, despite their recent fights, he can already hear Digg’s response (Digg’s and Felicity’s and Tommy’s). _‘You don’t have to ask, Oliver’._

Tommy and Thea can stay away from the Mirakuru business – he’ll tell them to stay away, if they aren’t already furious with him for missing dinner. If Diggle and Felicity want to keep working in the meanwhile, he won’t stop them – he needs all the help he can get – but he’s going to do everything he can to stop both of them from entering the field for as long as possible. (He wants to keep them safe, but this is _Mirakuru_. Can he ask them to put their lives in jeopardy to save the city? _It’s their choice_ , he reminds himself again. And he can’t let Mirakuru remain on the streets.)

Roy and Lance, though… does he warn them so they can stay away and risk letting them get involved? It’s a question for later.

Digg’s text says they’ve identified the man who’d attacked Oliver – the man with Mirakuru in his blood – and Oliver had just seen Shado, back from the dead, talked to her as if she really existed.

He needs to have another chat with Barry Allen.

* * *

Felicity, Digg, and Allen are all still in the basement when he returns, though he hadn’t really expected anything different.

“I brought dinner,” Oliver announces, glad he’d accurately predicted that they hadn’t eaten yet. He’s hungry, after his near-death experience, and he knows he needs to keep his energy up to heal properly. (He hadn’t bothered to check with Allen what kind of food he enjoyed, but he did bring enough for everyone. That’s as much of a peace offering as he can give right now.)

“That might just have to wait,” Digg answers, though he throws the bag in Oliver’s hand an interested glance.

“We found Cyrus Gold,” Felicity explains for him.

“Who’s Cyrus Gold?”

“The human weapon that left you nearly dead the other night.”

“I managed to pull a print off your neck after all,” Allen explains excitedly.

“I’ve had facial recognition software scanning closed circuit cameras all over town,” Felicity continues. “He was at the corner of Delgado and 25th about five minutes ago before we lost him.”

The intersection sounds familiar, but Oliver hasn’t yet memorized the layout of every street in the city. “What else is at that intersection?”

“A parking lot, a market, a motel.”

A motel. Oliver knows they’re all thinking the same thing. No guarantee, of course, but…

“Can you hack it?” he asks Felicity. She doesn’t need to ask him what he’s talking about.

“Let me check,” she offers, spinning back to her screens.

In the meantime, Oliver sets the bag of food on the table beside him and turns to Allen, who’s been watching eagerly. (He really _is_ a fan of the Arrow, and he’s a member of the police in Central City, however tangentially, so he’s probably not the kind of fan who approves of the violence Oliver commits. Instead, he’s probably more focused on the lives Oliver’s saved. It’s a little strange, to see someone be so openly approving of him. He makes a mental note never to introduce Allen to Roy.)

“The rat poison that you gave me...are there any side effects?”

Allen blinks for a moment – perhaps at the question, perhaps simply at being directly confronted. “Um, yeah, I think hallucinations, maybe,” he says with a frown, clearly thinking hard. “And excessive sweating. Are you sweating excessively?”

He’s not a doctor, Oliver reminds himself, however much he knows biology and basic medical science. And he’d saved his life.

“Wait, what?” Felicity asks, throwing him a worried glance. But she’s too caught up in her work to question him.

Digg does it for her. “You're hallucinating?” he asks, voice low with concern. “Are you sure?”

“I saw someone who’s supposed to be dead,” Oliver says in a flat voice, that allows for no argument. He can see the question that forms on the tip of Diggle’s tongue in response. _‘Who?’_ But Digg holds himself back, and doesn’t ask.

That, more than anything, prompts Oliver to answer anyway. “She was on the island with me. There’s no chance she’s still alive.”

It’s tense for a moment at the revelation, even Felicity’s shoulders tight, her back still to him as she works, before Allen moves into Oliver’s line of sight.

“You did train in a jungle or forest environment, then,” he says eagerly. “Hence the green.”

From the looks of him, he’s been dying to ask about the island – about anything to do with the Arrow probably – since Oliver woke up.

Oliver only gives him a look.

Allen changes tracks quickly. “I can draw some blood,” he offers. “Make sure there’s nothing else going on.”

That, at least, sounds like a valid suggestion. Oliver moves over to where some of the medical equipment is still laid out. They don’t have anything too high tech in the basement – they’re not a crime lab – but Barry can at least check his blood cell counts and whatnot, and he’ll understand what the numbers mean probably far better than the rest of them.

Despite his comments earlier about not being a doctor, Allen draws blood easily.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks, as he pulls the needle away from Oliver’s flesh.

Oliver can’t blame him for being nervous. He’d get worried if Allen wasn’t nervous. But he also doesn’t need the kid to know anything more about him than he already does. He gives Allen a look.

Apparently, though, and he really should have picked up on this by now, despite the fact that he’d met Allen less than a week ago, the scientist needs no prompting.

“Why no mask?” Allen barrels through the question, acting as though he thinks if he speaks too slowly Oliver will cut him off. “Not to tell you how to do your vigilante...ing, but the grease paint thing? It's a poor identity concealer.”

It’s… not a bad question, all things considered. Allen really _has_ thought about this. And it’s almost impossible not to answer him back. “So find me a mask that conforms perfectly to my face and doesn't affect my ability to aim while I'm on the run,” Oliver responds.

“You should look into a compressible micro fabric,” Barry answers right back, as if he’d already known what Oliver was going to say. No, as if he’d wanted to offer the suggestion earlier, but wanted to make sure that Oliver didn’t have a valid reason for not wearing a mask before he’d spoke.

A compressible micro fabric. Oliver files the suggestion away to deal with later, once they’ve tracked down Gold and taken the Mirakuru off the streets.

“Too many people pay cash at the motel,” Felicity cuts in, done with her hacking for the moment, “and they don’t have their own security cameras. Or, at least, no networked cameras. But I checked the stored feed at the intersection, and Gold was there about the same time yesterday. Unless he’s _really_ into seafood markets, he’s staying there. Or somewhere nearby.”

It’s a little strange, that their criminal’s living out of a hotel, but then, a lot of people in the Glades are down on their luck. Homeless doesn’t mean no roof over your head – it just means you don’t have a home to go back to. And a motel like the one displayed on Felicity’s screens, Oliver notes as he moves to stand next to her, looks very cheap.

“Right.” Oliver nods and starts to move away again, only for Diggle to step slightly into his path.

“Maybe I should handle this one,” he offers hesitantly, as if he’s not sure Oliver would accept.

This is _Mirakuru_. Oliver, as far as he knows, is the only living person to ever fight down someone dosed with the stuff and live to tell the tale. Not that he _has_ really told anyone the tale. (There’s Sara too though, and it’s still wonderful to think that she’s out there somewhere, alive, even if she’s not here.)

But he’s also hallucinating. He’s still sore and weak from his last fight, bruises lining his torso. He’s at even more of a disadvantage than he was last time he’d fought Gold. And this _is_ Mirakuru. They have to stop it. He’d only just vowed to himself that he wouldn’t let anyone else into the field if he could help it, but he’s in no condition to go himself – even if he wasn’t hallucinating.”

He nods again. “Fine. Recon only though. And I’m going as backup.”

Felicity glances between the two of them, clearly worried. “Are you sure? Roy or Lance could –”

“We’re not getting them involved in this,” Oliver snaps, cutting her off. “Not yet,” he adds, softening his words. He hasn’t made a decision on that front yet, and looking at Digg and Felicity’s worried faces, he thinks maybe that’s a decision they should make together.

She swallows but nods, watching them leave.

Oliver can only hope he’s not leading Digg to his death.

* * *

The motel’s few records that are digitized – and therefore hackable by Felicity – didn’t include names with most room numbers, especially those that paid in cash. But all John has to do is slip the man behind the desk a crisp one hundred (completely refundable by Oliver, of course) and he’s headed up to the fourth floor to Cyrus Gold’s room. The motel hallway is grungy and rundown, but John only notes it absently, so much more focused on staying alert and keeping his eye out for any movement.

Oliver’d almost died trying to fight this guy. _Oliver_. The only other time Digg’s seen him this close to death had been when his mother had taken him by surprise and shot him. And even then Oliver had managed to drag himself out of the room, to the parking garage, and into Felicity’s car. This time, Oliver’d barely managed to turn on his comm link.

John can’t afford to miss anything, can’t afford to make any mistakes.

He listens outside the room for a good two minutes, but there’s no light coming from the crack under the door and no sounds from inside. If Gold is nearby, he’s either in bed already, keeping very quiet, or not actually in his room at the moment.

It takes a moment for John to get the door open – he’s not as good at picking locks as Oliver, but the motel locks aren’t exactly top shelf locks – and he eases it open slowly, grateful for the lack of traffic in the hallway as he pushes it inward.

He doesn’t turn on the light, not immediately, not until he’s sure that Gold’s not in the room, but, against the little stealth training he has, he doesn’t shut the door behind him either. Leaving it open might alert someone in the hall to his presence – might alert Gold, whether he’s in the room already or if he approaches from the outside – but he needs the light to see by. Not to mention that if Oliver couldn’t beat this guy, he doesn’t have much of a chance unless Gold is still suffering from any hits Oliver had managed to land. (From the looks of the brief glimpse of him on video they’d gotten, he’s not.) John’s picked up a thing or two about escape routes from Oliver, in the time he’s worked with him. He leaves the door open and notes the location of the window.

Oliver’d already pointed out the fire escape to him when he’d told the man Gold’s room number.

_“Ok, what do you see?”_ Oliver’s voice comes through the comm link, and it’s a bit odd, to hear it in his ear rather than through Felicity’s computers, announced to the old basement. It’s not that John’s not familiar with working in the field, it’s just that he hasn’t done so since the three of them have reconnected, aside from when Oliver had been kidnapped.

He shakes such thoughts from his mind. “It's clean. Really clean,” he reports. Probably not super relevant, but it’s the first thing he’d thought of. Compared to the dump outside, Gold’s room is practically a five-star motel room. He has no idea what that means about Gold himself. He spots a notebook on the counter that’s (hopefully) more what Oliver’s looking for. “’Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday.’” He reads aloud. The handwriting is not nearly as neat as the motel room itself.

“Christened on Tuesday,” Oliver finishes for him. “I know the poem. It symbolizes the seven stages of life -- from birth to death.”

John has no idea what that has to do with anything, or why Gold has it in his rooms. “What stage is this guy in?” he finds himself asking anyway, still looking around, still on high alert. He doesn’t see the attack coming.

Gold sneaks up from behind him, and John turns quickly enough to get his gun aimed at the man’s center mass, but not quickly enough to fire it. A steel grip clamps onto his wrist, twisting. Agonizing pain shoots straight up his arm.

Digg manages to fire off two shots, but he honestly couldn’t say whether or not they connect with Gold. Gold certainly doesn’t react. (If Oliver says something, John doesn’t hear it through the temporary ringing in his ears and the fact that all he can focus on is the situation in front of him – escaping the painful grip Gold has him in.)

He doesn’t manage to wrest his arm free, but he hits Gold in the face with his other arm. (And the man’s wearing a _mask,_ in his own motel room. Either he’d already had it on him, or he’d seen John coming from a distance). Gold reacts by letting go of his wrist and striking him hard enough to send him flying across the room. That hurts too.

John has no chance of winning. He has no illusions about that. Tonight was supposed to be recon anyway. Well, they’ve given away their position. No point in sticking around. He scrambles to his feet and jumps for the window. It’s cheap glass, shattering under the force of his body hurtling through it (just another bruise he’ll be regretting in the morning – though he supposes regret isn’t the right word if it helps him live through this). He clings to the fire escape, scrambling for the ground, and very pointedly does not risk slowing himself down by looking back.

Oliver, of course, is already on top of things. John had been half worried that he’d charge into the apartment himself, no matter his own bruises, but instead his car comes squealing to a halt right below the fire escape, Oliver behind the wheel. Groaning in pain, wrist throbbing and shoulder aching from the way Gold had _twisted_ his arm (from the way he’d caught himself on the fire escape after jumping through a _window_ ), John doesn’t hesitate to throw himself into the car. “Go, go, go, go, go!” he urges by instinct, because Oliver doesn’t actually need his cue.

They peel out of the alley quicker than they should, and Oliver spends ten minutes driving around seemingly at random until he slows down enough to pull off to the side and check on Digg.

* * *

Digg’s wrist ends up needing to be wrapped. He’s got bruising along his ribs and a shoulder that will ache for the next few days. And he stares unflinchingly at Oliver as Oliver patches him up.

“Don’t you dare second guess this,” he says boldly. “I made my choice.”

Oliver doesn’t need to ask for clarification. He wouldn’t have done much better against Gold, in his condition. And he’s made his decision too. This is Mirakuru. Gold needs to be taken down.

He’s just not sure he wants to discuss this in front of Allen. He gives the scientist a look. Allen already knows so much, but he only knows about the three of them. He doesn’t know about Tommy or Thea or Roy or Lance, or even Laurel’s minor involvement with the Arrow.

Digg, of course, catches the look.

“Look, I get that you don’t trust him –” he starts out.

Oliver appreciates the fact that he’s willing to talk in such a way in front of Allen himself (Felicity’s face is already shifting back to outrage), but he interrupts Digg with a look anyway. Digg closes his mouth, and Oliver turns to Allen.

“What you know could get you killed,” he says plainly.

Allen sobers immediately. “I won’t tell –”

“This isn’t about whether or not you intend to tell anyone anymore,” Oliver cuts him off. Against all his training, even though he hasn’t had the opportunity to run a more thorough background test on Allen, he believes the kid about that, at least. Gut instinct, and he has to still believe he can trust those. “This is about whether or not someone can make you tell.”

The kid doesn’t get it, not at first, but then his gaze goes distant and his lips slip into an unpleasant frown.

“The more you know, the more danger you’re in,” Oliver finishes. He let Digg and Felicity make their own choices. When he’d given the phone to Laurel again, he’d told her she could throw it away if she wanted. Tommy decided to come back. Thea has decided she wants to help him. Roy… Well, Roy started looking for Oliver long before Oliver reached out to him.

He can let Allen make his own choice too. He’s in too deep to back out entirely now, even if he leaves tomorrow and chooses to forget entirely about what happened to him in Star City.

Allen, thank goodness, seems to actually understand something of the gravity of the situation. He hesitates, thinking before he responds to Oliver’s words. When he does speak, his own tone is even and measured.

“I… I always knew the Green Arrow had partners,” he says solemnly. “I mean, I didn’t _know_ , but… I always guessed. I... What you do, what the three of you do, it’s worth the risk. If I can help, I want to.”

Oliver’s not really sure he can help, not anymore, not beyond what he’s already doing, but that’s not really the point. Allen’s made his decision too. He nods once, turning back to Digg and Felicity.

“We need to let Lance and Roy in on the situation,” he says, “and then I need to talk to Tommy and Thea.”

“What are you planning to tell Roy?” Digg asks, looking worried.

“Nothing specific,” Oliver readily clarifies. They don’t need Roy to go looking for Gold himself.

Digg nods. “And Lance?”

“I don’t know how long it’ll take me to recover. Alone, I won’t be enough to take Gold down. Not for a while.”

* * *

It’s approaching twenty-four hours since they’d brought Allen down to their basement lair. Well, twenty just about, but near enough to twenty-four. John’s left a few times now – to pick up food, mainly, and grab a short nap, but also on his ill-fated recon mission – and Felicity’d left once to grab a few things from her place and also catch a few hours of rest, but otherwise they’ve been on high alert since Oliver’s first encounter with Gold. Allen’s been stuck down here since they brought him in unconscious.

With Oliver out meeting with Lance face to face, John almost suggests taking Allen upstairs, letting him get some fresh air. But even if Allen knows about Oliver Queen being the Green Arrow, he doesn’t know about Verdant. Oliver had openly discussed a few things in front of him – Lance’s association with them, namely – but John’s not willing to make the call on his own when it comes to letting Allen know where their base is.

John knows they’ve already broken Oliver’s trust by bringing the guy in in the first place. He doesn’t regret it, but he’s not going to do anything more to jeopardize that trust. Oliver… it’s more than just Allen that’s bothering him. John can tell. He wonders how much more Oliver knows about this Mirakuru that he’s not telling them.

Probably nothing more about how it works, or its ingredients, but probably a ton when it comes to Oliver’s personal experience with the drug. And from what little snippets John has learned over the past year, Oliver has good reason to keep quiet. Nothing he ever says is pleasant. (Even his hallucination, even Felicity’s disgruntlement that there’d been another girl on the island with Oliver… John can’t see anything in her frustration but ill-placed jealousy. That other girl is dead. Nothing about that suggests Oliver was having a good time.)

Regardless, any potential life-changing (team-changing) decisions, he’s going to consult Oliver on going forward, excepting those rare few occasions like last night when Oliver had been too unconscious to have his own opinion. He nods toward the cot in the corner. “Why don’t you get some rest?” he suggests to Allen. “You’ve been up all day.”

Maybe he’d napped while John had been gone, but he hadn’t while Felicity had taken her break.

Allen gives the cot a wistful look, glances down at whatever test he’s running on Oliver’s blood, then stands up. “Is there… is there any chance I could get my stuff?” he asks hesitantly.

John’s honestly not sure if he means his phone or a change of clothes.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Allen promises, no less sincere even though Oliver is long gone.

Working with Oliver has retaught John the habit of second guessing everyone’s motives and living by the principle that people are not necessarily what they appear to be, but he believes Allen. Allen means what he’s saying. Oliver seems to believe him too.

John nods, even if he still feels like he has to say something still beyond what Oliver’s already said to the kid. It’s half his fault that Allen’s here in the first place. (He doesn’t regret that. He never will. But he’s still broken Oliver’s trust in him. Again.)

“It’s not just about Oliver,” he says strongly as Allen blinks at him. “If people knew that you knew who the Arrow was, you’d be in danger too. Your family. Your friends.”

Allen nods firmly, or attempts to at least. “I don’t really have many people,” he says. “No one will ever find out that I know.”

John studies him, then nods again and moves to retrieve Allen’s belongings from where he’d tucked them away.

Allen takes the suitcase and the phone, wallet, and keys that had been in his pockets gratefully, looking at his phone regretfully for a moment. He winces at whatever he sees there, shoots off a quick text, then winces again. “Probably too late to call my boss, isn’t it?” he asks, half rhetorically.

“Probably,” John agrees easily. He doesn’t ever really have that problem. “Feel free to use the shower if you need it.”

Allen looks toward the bathroom but shakes his head. “I think I just want to sleep, right now,” he says, looking to the cot again.

“I can get you some fresh blankets –” Felicity starts to offer.

Shaking his head, Allen cuts her off. “I’m good,” he says with a grin that highlights the exhaustion in his eyes. “Thanks.”

Felicity grins back, a little sheepishly. Allen heads for the bathroom to change.

The minute Allen snorts slightly in his sleep, turning restlessly – in other words, the minute John and Felicity know for sure that he is asleep – tension drops into the basement, thick and heavy. They probably don’t have long until Oliver returns now, but this is the first time the two of them have been alone together since they’d tranq’d Allen at the train station. It’s been a long twenty-four hours, and neither of them has handled it entirely well.

John watches Felicity working at her computers for a moment. Most of her bad mood, he figures, doesn’t have anything to do with Oliver’s reaction that morning, or lack of gratitude. Most if it has to do with how worried she was – how worried they both were. The first time she’d learned Oliver was the Arrow she’d almost had to watch him die, her hands coated in his blood as John had worked furiously to save his life. No doubt last night reminded her of that meeting.

Still, fear doesn’t account for her entire attitude, nor does it excuse the way she’s acting as if they’ve done nothing wrong. The world isn’t split into black and white, good and evil, and neither are individual actions. John doesn’t think Felicity’s at that point where she can recognize that what they’d done was a good thing _and_ a bad thing, betraying their friend to save his life.

Some betrayals friendships don’t come back from, and maybe Felicity’s worried about that too, adding to her irritation.

John thinks Oliver won’t take long to come around and recognize that the good outweighs the bad, but that doesn’t mean he thinks Oliver’s the one at fault here. (Truthfully, Oliver seems to already be doing that, putting things aside to go after the Mirakuru, but John won’t take that as Oliver’s genuine reaction until he sees the way his friend acts without Allen present.)

They hadn’t exactly given him a lot of time to react this morning.

John considers what to say, glances away briefly, then moves to stand at Felicity’s side. “Allen said he’ll recover,” he reminds his friend softly, figuring that tackling that problem first might just solve all the rest.

Felicity glances over at him, gaze as sharp as Oliver’s arrows. “He almost died,” she bites out. “Again.”

John’s seen the way Felicity throws herself into catching criminals and chasing down bad guys. She genuinely enjoys it, and she’s good at it. But sometimes, when Oliver comes back injured and bleeding and Felicity gets frantic, he still wonders if they’re asking too much of her. Then again, it’s not like he’s adjusted to the nearly dying either.

“But he didn’t.”

Felicity scowls. “If he’d had his way he would have.”

She doesn’t mean it that way, doesn’t really think that if Oliver had had a conscious choice between living and dying, he would have chosen dying. She doesn’t really see that side of Oliver, John thinks. He barely sees it himself. But he’s seen the way Oliver looks at his own reflection sometimes. Maybe he wouldn’t have chosen dying, if he’d had a choice, but Oliver’s still expecting death to find him, sooner rather than later. And, John has thought more than once, Oliver doesn’t only expect it, he’s accepted it.

Not quite suicidal, because he’ll fight to survive if there’s even the slightest hope left, but he’s teetering on the edge and sometimes John thinks he’s the only one who can see it.

John can’t think of anything to say for a moment, because he knows they’re both thinking of what might happen next time. Because there will be a next time. John doesn’t need to say that out loud to know that Felicity is thinking the same thing. The truth is, he’s not really handling this any better than Felicity, he’s just much better at hiding it.

He looks away from her, closes his eyes for a moment and considers what to say next.

Felicity speaks first, looking over at Allen. “He didn’t even thank him,” she says, disgruntled.

Misdirection, John figures. He doesn’t doubt that Felicity’s irritated at Oliver’s lack of manners, but if she were thinking straight, if Oliver’s near-death experience hadn’t rattled her so much, she’d see Oliver’s lack of manners for what they really were. Fear. Concern. At least, that’s what John thinks. He’s realizing that he still has a bit to learn when it comes to reading Oliver Queen.

“I think he had a bit more on his mind.”

Felicity falters at that. Upset as she might actually be with Oliver, John knows she hasn’t forgotten his near-death experience. It’s most of the reason for her anger, after all.

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t know where he was going to wake up.” Or if he was going to.

Felicity doesn’t know as much about PTSD as John does – how could she? – but she’s known Oliver for a year now. She’s seen him react to injuries and death before, even if she’s only seen him wake a scant few times. She’s probably never seen Oliver startled though – John only has once – because Oliver doesn’t typically enter into a situation where he can be startled. He never gives anyone the chance.

In reaction to his words, Felicity’s jaw clenches as she looks away. Her gaze flickers over to Allen again, if only for a moment, and however much she proclaims to trust him – however much she actually trusts him – John knows she’s grateful that he’s unconscious. She doesn’t want to have this kind of personal discussion in front of him either.

It’s awkward and tense and awful, for a moment, both of them aware that they almost just watched Oliver die, both of them wondering if Oliver will ultimately consider their actions a betrayal, and both of them feeling differently about it.

John’s not going to apologize for saving Oliver’s life, but he’s going to do everything he can to make up for betraying his secrets to do so. Felicity, on the other hand, seems to think that Oliver’s the only wrong party here, and that he owes Allen a thank you.

But, just as John had just been thinking of him, Oliver’s motorbike roars past the camera feed on one of Felicity’s screens, cutting their conversation short.

Now the tension isn’t just between them and Oliver anymore, it’s between him and Felicity too. This time though, this time, as soon as Allen’s gone, they’re going to sit down and talk things out.

* * *

* * *

_December 10, 2013:_

Allen doesn’t wake until the early morning, and when he does he makes a few hurried distracted phone calls, glancing up at Oliver and Digg several times as he speaks.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the breakfast sandwich Digg hands him when he walks over at the end. “Where’s Felicity?”

“Here!” Felicity says, hurrying down the stairs. She’s changed, showered, and caught a few hours of sleep – there’d been no reason for all three of them to stay the night. “I’m your ride to the train station.”

Allen blinks at her. “What?”

“I appreciate everything you’ve done for us,” Oliver says plainly, and Allen blinks at that too, “but if I heard you correctly you told your boss you’d be home yesterday.”

“And the blood sample’s done,” Felicity adds on. She’s deposited her purse on her desk already and hands over the printouts to Allen. “Unless there’s something, wrong…”

“It’s the least we can do, after making you miss your train,” Digg continues.

“Oh, uh,” Allen says distractedly, already flipping through the papers, “I’d already missed it.” He looks up after a moment to find Felicity hovering impatiently near him, and even Digg watching anxiously. Oliver just holds himself calm. He’d seen Slade last night, when meeting with Lance, and again when he’d been alone in the foundry but for Allen’s sleeping form.

“Do you know what’s in my system?”

“Um,” Allen starts, in the face of the scrutiny, before he musters his courage and meets Oliver’s gaze. “There’s nothing in your blood, it’s clean.”

Oliver tenses minutely. He’d been hoping for an easy answer, something that would pass in a day or two, or could be flushed out of his system. He should have known better than to hope.

“Then why is he hallucinating?” Felicity asks before he can, still hovering at Allen’s side, neck craning as if she can read something in the printouts that he can’t.

Allen shakes his head. “I don’t know, but whatever your problem is, it's not pharmacological. It's psychological.”

Oliver supposes he’d already known that. It shouldn’t be such a surprise.

“It’s in my head,” he says, at the same time Allen says: “It’s in your head.”

Silence settles into the basement for a moment. Oliver processes the information, then sets it aside. He can worry about that later, when he’s alone. For now, Mirakuru’s still out there, and Allen’s still here.

“Thank you for your help,” he repeats calmly.

Allen blinks at him. “Oh, uh…”

Oliver quirks an eyebrow, willing himself to be patient. “Unless there’s something else…”

“No, uh, no, nothing else. Just, uh… thanks, I guess. For letting me be a part of this. I promise I won’t tell anyone.”

Oliver doesn’t doubt that, anymore. Hopefully, in Central City, Barry Allen will be far enough away from his troubles that no one will ever consider he might know the Green Arrow’s secret.

Allen gathers up his stuff, moving to where Felicity waits for him at the bottom of the stairs.

Oliver stops him one last time. “Before you go…”

Allen takes the phone Oliver hands him. “What’s this?”

“It’s a way to get in touch,” Oliver admits. “I owe you.” He doesn’t want to. Never wanted Allen to be involved in this. But Allen had saved his life. He’d proven himself invaluable. And Oliver might need his forensics and biology background again, especially with the Mirakuru.

Quick to shake his head, Allen’s fingers nevertheless curl protectively over the phone he now holds. “You don’t owe me anything,” he argues.

Oliver’s not interested in debating. Allen saved his life. That’s all that needs to be said.

“It’s for emergencies only,” he clarifies. He’s only known Allen a short while, but the man is easily excited.

“Of course. I promise you, I won’t betray your trust.”

Oliver glances over at Felicity before Allen can begin to babble. She and Digg had both looked astonished when he’d handed Allen the phone, but she recovers quickly at his look. “Right, well, don’t want to miss this train too. You ready?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, thanks again.”

Digg nods as Allen follows Felicity up the stairs, suitcase clunking awkwardly.

“We are going to talk about this,” he says lowly, as the door shuts behind them.

“That was the plan,” Oliver agrees neutrally, not sure if Digg’s upset at not being consulted about the phone or just astonished that Oliver had handed it over at all. In the meantime, though, they have to wait for Felicity to return. No reason he can’t stretch his muscles and test his recovery with a good workout.

* * *

Everything boils over when Felicity returns. Oliver’s frustration at having his identity revealed, Felicity’s frustration with the way he’d reacted upon waking up, Digg’s frustration with… Well, with everything. It’s been a tense few weeks. A tense month. They’d handled Tommy’s kidnapping together. They’d dealt with the revelation that he’s worked with ARGUS before. And now this. Now the Mirakuru.

They’re working fine together as a team, but they just aren’t quickly _clicking_ together again.

“You gave him a phone,” Felicity states blandly.

_You told me to trust him,_ Oliver thinks about saying but doesn’t. “Yes,” he says instead.

“No offense, Oliver,” Digg says, stepping in for Felicity, “but don’t you think we should have been consulted on that?”

And shouldn’t he have been consulted on involving Allen in the first place? It’s not the same thing. Oliver _knows_ it’s not the same thing. How could it be, when he was unconscious when Digg and Felicity made their decision? But they’d told his identity to a stranger, and they’re _all_ lucky that it’d turned out as well as it had.

Making decisions without consulting them was why Digg and Felicity had left in the first place, Oliver knows. And he’s done it again.

_There wasn’t time_ , he wants to say, but he knows how well Felicity and Digg would take that.

He takes too long to respond.

“You can’t seriously still be upset that we told him without consulting _you_ , while you were _dying_!” Felicity exclaims in the silence.

Oliver grits his teeth. _Of course_ he’s still upset about it. He wants to brush it aside, wants to go back to how they’d been before, slowly moving toward where they’d been over the summer. But that’s not going to help them improve, in the long run. They want him to talk more? Fine, he’ll talk.

“We got lucky, with Allen,” he admits, voice tight. “You couldn’t have guaranteed that it would turn out as well as it has.” Can’t even guarantee that Allen still won’t tell anyone, but they can tackle one problem at a time, Oliver figures. “You cannot just tell whoever you want.”

“You were –!”

“Not even if I’m dying!” Oliver cuts in harshly. It isn’t that hard to understand! “This isn’t just about me anymore! You were putting both of your lives in jeopardy! You were putting Thea and Tommy at risk. Laurel. Roy. Even Lance! You’ve told me that I’m not alone anymore, fine, but that means that I’m not the only one in danger if my secret gets out!”

“You dying in the hood would be a pretty big clue to anyone with a brain!”

“Star City will never find Oliver Queen’s body under that hood,” Oliver says finally, with a harsh look at Diggle. He knows he couldn’t ask that of Felicity, knows she would never be able to dress up his corpse, disguise his cause of death, but Diggle…

The soldier’s jaw clenches. “That’s a lot to ask, Oliver,” he says, low and tense.

“Not doing so would put you at risk. Would put your family at risk.” It’s a low blow, but Oliver can tell Digg’s thinking about his nephew in response to his words.

“You were dying, Oliver,” Felicity says resolutely, not backing down. “There wasn’t any other option.”

There was. There were a million different options, actually. But Oliver can tell, looking at Felicity now, that voicing any of them won’t persuade her.

He grits his teeth again, then purposefully relaxes. “We can put contingencies in place. We can map out worst case scenarios. But next time we might not get so lucky, which means there _cannot be a next time_.” He doesn’t mean that he’ll never put himself in a situation that might end his life again. He means next time, they can’t call a stranger to save him.

“Allen’s on call now – you need medical advice, fine, he’s in the loop. Call him. But we’re not bringing anyone else into this until we’ve run proper background checks on them.”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion, man,” Digg says calmly – purposefully calmly. “We knew what we were doing, bringing Allen in. But if that’s the way you want to play it, we can work with that.”

It’s… it’s an agreement. None of them are really happy with it, Oliver can tell, but it’s something they can work with. They’ll just have to take it one step at a time.

* * *

“Are you alright, Thea? You seem distracted.”

Walter’s calm tone and soothing accent – and genuine concern – pull Thea from her distracted mind. She jerks her gaze away from the window she’d been staring out of and turns back to her ex-stepfather. But what can she say to him? Yeah, she’s distracted, but she can’t tell him _why_.

“I… it’s just… Oliver,” she says weakly, trying to muster up a smile.

“Is everything alright?” Walter repeats, no less concerned. “I know he’s been having some trouble with the company.”

Thea starts. She’d forgotten all about Queen Consolidated in the wake of her talk with Tommy. “No, I mean, yes, but I don’t think that’s it.” She _wants_ to talk about this, especially because Tommy keeps pushing her off by saying it’s really Oliver she should be asking her questions (which, she _would_ , but Oliver is refusing to talk to her and never actually told her the code to get into his secret base under Verdant). Suddenly, an idea strikes her. “Can I… can I ask you about, about what happened to you?” she asks uncertainly. She loves Walter, and she loves Oliver, and she wants to _understand_ Oliver, but not so much as to risk her relationship with Walter. And Walter has never once said anything to her about the fact that her mother was behind his kidnapping.

Walter pauses, clearly not expecting that sort of question. He glances away, straightening the silverware on the table, before he glances up again. “Thea, it’s not that I don’t want to… to speak honestly with you, but…”

“I don’t, I don’t need to know _details_ or anything,” Thea quickly interrupts, rushing to reassure him. “It’s just, I can’t seem to get through to Oliver and I couldn’t help but think… I mean…” She pauses herself, looking out the window for another moment as she searches for the words. “He won’t _talk_ to me. I just want him to tell me what… what’s going on with him.” It’s _hard_ , dancing around the truth, avoiding the fact that it’s not just what Oliver went through during those five years but what he’s going through _right now_ that she wants to know about.

Walter takes a moment, his serious expression on. The waiter comes. They give their lunch orders. (It’s a Tuesday, not a Saturday, but Walter has to fly out of town the coming weekend for an old friend’s son’s wedding, so he’d moved up their weekly lunch.)

Only after the waiter has walked away again does Walter speak.

“What your brother went through, and what I experienced…” Walter shakes his head solemnly. “I don’t believe it was as similar as you might think.”

Thea starts and stares at her ex-stepfather. He doesn’t _know_ , does he? Tommy had seemed certain he didn’t, and Thea can’t imagine why Oliver would have shared it with him, but…

“I didn’t have to fend for myself,” Walter continues. “I didn’t… didn’t have to change who I was to survive. But if Oliver’s having trouble speaking about it, I suggest you give him time, and space. Remind him that you’re there, and willing to listen, but don’t push. Oliver…” But Walter trails off again, unable to come up with the words to describe her brother.

He _doesn’t_ know, Thea decides, or at least, Oliver’s never told him. But she has the feeling Walter knows more about what Oliver went through than the rest of them, even if that’s from careful guesswork on his part than anything Oliver’s told him.

“He’s been home over a year now,” Thea reminds her ex-stepfather. “I don’t… I don’t know how well giving him time is working.” Except it _did_ work, she realizes as soon as she speaks. Oliver told her about the fact that he’s the Green Arrow. It took him a year and a kidnapping, but he did tell her. Still, she’s not willing to wait another year in order to stay in the loop.

Walter acknowledges that with a small grimace and a minute head nod. “Thea, the reason I don’t wish to tell you exactly what… what happened to me, is that I don’t want to burden you with that knowledge. I was left alone, and I was fed, and that, I think, is all I need to share. Have you considered that maybe your brother feels similarly?”

Except it’s not exactly Oliver’s past that she’s pressing him on right now. How can she convey that to Walter without sharing Oliver’s secret?

She shakes her head, frustrated with her inability to find the words. “It’s not… I don’t need _details_ ,” she repeats. “I just… he won’t even talk to me about what’s going on right _now_ , let alone while he was on that island.”

“Perhaps lead with that,” Walter suggests. “Ask him to start with something small. Ask him about his day whenever you see him. I know you’ve been watching movies together, maybe find an activity that allows you to speak while you spend time with the other.” His gaze flickers to the side, where Thea spots their waiter approaching with their orders. “Lunch, perhaps.” Walter says with a nod toward the food.

The last time she (and Tommy) had tried to eat with Oliver, he’d skipped out on them. But the other idea, starting small… Well, Thea’s willing to admit that she’s never been known for her patience, but she’s quickly running out of options. Since it’s that or nothing, she might as well give it a try. It’s exactly what Tommy’s been saying she should do though, exactly what he’s been trying to do.

_He said we could talk this afternoon_ , she reminds herself, even if she thinks Oliver’d only suggested that to tell them to stay away. She can try and follow Walter’s advice then.

“Thanks,” she says, sincere if not necessarily enthused by the suggestion as the waiter disappears again. “But enough about me.” She doesn’t want to spend their lunch wondering if Oliver’s going to get himself hurt again, or if she’ll have the patience to get through a conversation with him. “How’d the audit go at the bank?”

Walter grins and happy obliges her with the tale.

* * *

Thea and Tommy are both waiting for him when Oliver reaches Queen Manor’s primary living room. He’s not late for once, so it’s hard to say if they were worried he wouldn’t show, or just anxious in general. Thea, at the very least, is fidgeting anxiously, and stands when he enters, giving him a worried once over, even if Tommy stands much more slowly, with less concern on his own face.

“Now are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Thea demands to know.

Oliver stares at her. “No,” he says plainly. “It’s called Mirakuru, and I want you to stay away from it.

She blanches, affronted, and opens her mouth, but with only a glance over at the patiently waiting Tommy she closes it again. “Why?” she asks instead through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted you to get involved, Thea,” Oliver says plainly. “I told you because you deserved to know the truth. You deserve to have people in your life who aren’t lying to you.”

“So what are you here to tell us?” Tommy asks, raising an eyebrow.

Oliver takes a brief moment to go over his planned statement in his mind. “I’ll keep both of you up to date on the investigation into our kidnappers,” he allows. “But if you won’t accept a bodyguard, Thea –”

“No.”

“Then there’s nothing more I can do about it right now.”

“And what about why you got injured?”

Oliver gives his friend a look. “You don’t need to get involved with that,” he repeats.

“Well what if I want to get involved!” Thea blurts out. “You’re not my dad, you can’t tell me what to do.”

No, but he is the Arrow, and he does have a say in who helps him out. “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he says, and it’s not a criticism, it’s a genuine fact. Thea doesn’t have the first clue about what being the Arrow entails.

“You brought Roy into this! I know you’ve asked Laurel for help before! So, what, because I’m not a lawyer, or from the Glades, I’ve got nothing to offer?”

That’s… not entirely false. Each member of his current team was involved because there was something he could gain from them. But saying it like that sounds cold. He never would have involved Roy if Roy hadn’t asked for it. And, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, Laurel had only ever met the vigilante because he’d been unable to stay away from her.

He won’t make that mistake again with Thea.

Looking away, Oliver walks toward the window, gazing out into the distance. “You’ve got a life. I won’t put you in danger. I won’t lie to you again, but that doesn’t mean I want you to be a part of this.”

Tommy steps forward before Thea can respond. “You’re the Arrow. It’s your choice, man. But I think you’re making the wrong call here.”

Oliver turns back to his sister. “I’m not putting you in any more danger,” he repeats plainly. “Mirakuru, it’s a drug. Makes people strong – stronger than humanly possible. If you hear anything about it – run. That’s all you need to know.”

She grits her teeth and he looks back to the window. A moment passes, then two, and then footsteps echo in his ears, disappearing down the hall. But only a single set. Only Thea’s. Oliver turns slightly and raises an eyebrow at Tommy, still standing there.

“I said that I thought you were wrong,” Tommy says plainly. “Not that I’m not going to support you, whatever you choose.”

“I don’t want to burden you with another one of my secrets, Tommy,” Oliver says plainly, turning back to resume staring out the window.

Tommy takes a single step forward, placing himself firmly at Oliver’s side rather than a step behind him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Oliver can see that Tommy’s not even looking at him. He’s looking out the same window Oliver is instead, both of their gazes trained on the distant forest.

Oliver wonders what Tommy sees when he looks at the trees. He wonders if Tommy thinks he sees Lian Yu. But then, Tommy has no idea what Lian Yu looks like. (And Oliver could never see the forest of that island in the trees surrounding his childhood home. He can tell the difference between them, at least.)

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says plainly, after a minute passes in silence that isn’t awkward, though it feels like it should be.

Oliver blinks. He doesn’t know why Tommy would say that, but… “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for. I never should have asked you to lie to Laurel.”

“No, not about that,” Tommy returns. “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting. I’m not going to say I was wrong to be hesitant – I needed time to process things – but I should have been honest with you from the beginning. I should have told you how I felt. I was jerking you around on a string, telling you I’d help and then backing out, over and over again. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry for calling you a murderer too – I don’t know if I ever apologized for that, but even if I already have, I still mean it.” Tommy looks over at him, expression as serious as Oliver’s ever seen it.

“I’m sorry, Oliver. You’re my best friend. You always will be. And right now, you need me. It’s as simple as that.”

But it’s not. It can’t be. Because Diggle and Felicity are frustrated with him again and Thea’s furious and there’s _Mirakuru_ in Star City and he doesn’t know who’s behind it all.

Tommy’s words are sincere and heartfelt. They should bring relief with them. They should lighten Oliver’s shattered heart. They should brighten the shadows that have infected his soul.

All Oliver can feel is the weight of a lead balloon sinking into his gut. He doesn’t say anything.

“Oliver,” Tommy says, stepping forward again, spinning to face Oliver, only a foot or two between them. “Can I put a hand on your shoulder?”

Oliver blinks again at the question. No one… No one’s ever asked him something like that before. He knows his confusion must be evident on his face, but Tommy doesn’t speak, just waits patiently, expectantly for an answer.

Refusing would be… Well, there’s no real reason to refuse. Oliver’s not sure if Tommy thinks he’s adverse to touch now, not sure what would have given his friend that impression. He’d hugged Tommy the first time he’d seen him after returning home.

He nods once regardless, a brief incline of his head.

Tommy offers him a soft smile, reaching forward and clapping his left hand firmly on Oliver’s right shoulder. His grip is warm but not tight, a solid weight that almost seems to ground Oliver in reality.

_Try and show up now, Slade_ , he finds himself thinking a little vindictively, surprised at himself for the thought before he refocuses on Tommy.

“Look, Thea told me how she found out about you,” Tommy says. “Digg clammed up when I asked how you were. And Felicity responded to my text with something completely off-topic. I know something’s going on. I know this Mirakuru has you worried – you’re still my best friend. I still know you Oliver. I thought I didn’t, but I was wrong. I’ve been looking at this – at the Green Arrow – all wrong from the beginning. You’ve been there for me through all of it. Let me be there for you.”

Oliver stares into Tommy’s brown eyes and Tommy stares back unflinchingly. Oliver looks away first, turning his gaze back out at the window. The solidity he’d felt when Tommy had first placed a hand on his shoulder has already evaporated. His heart is in his throat again at the mention of Mirakuru, at his fallibilities.

( _So much for Tommy chasing Slade away._ )

“What happened to Thea and me has nothing to do with this,” he replies blankly, emotionlessly, distantly. ( _“You’re still my best friend.” “I still know you Oliver.” “Let me be there for you.”_ )

Tommy squeezes his shoulder once, lightly, then lets go. “I don’t have to know the details,” he says, seemingly unphased. “I don’t _want_ to know the details. You don’t have to fill me in on the dangerous stuff. I don’t have to get involved. Just… tell me how you’re doing. Tell me what’s bothering you.”

Getting involved in Oliver’s emotional state is a treacherous minefield that Oliver wouldn’t actively chose to involve anyone in if he could help it. But Oliver _can’t_ be emotional if he wants to win the coming fight. And he can feel the specter of Slade creeping in on the edges of his vision (can feel the heartbreak of Shado clawing at his chest).

“There was a man, on the island with me,” he says, still emotionless, still staring off into the woods surrounding the property. Cutting them off from the outside world. It’s just him and Tommy right now (and Thea, somewhere in the vast structure that is their home).

“He trained me. Saved my life. And then I betrayed him. Got another friend of ours killed. We were brothers, for a time, and he died hating me.”

Oliver glances over at Tommy at the end of it all. _There,_ he thinks to himself, _let’s see how you handle that_. There’s a perverse sort of satisfaction at the thought and he doesn’t know why. Is he trying to push Tommy away again? Is he testing how much his friend can handle? What kind of monster does that? (He hasn’t even told Tommy the full story, hasn’t even mentioned the hallucinations, but he’s not sure he could tell the full story even if he’d wanted to. Every word about the island turns to gravel in his throat, forced out through clenched teeth. He’s been back a full year and talking about it hasn’t gotten any easier. By now, he’s not sure that it ever will.)

Tommy swallows in response to the words, clearly unsettled slightly, but he doesn’t back down. “It wasn’t your fault,” he says firmly.

It’s empty reassurance. Tommy doesn’t know what happened. His words don’t really mean anything. But Oliver still feels something jolt through him at the confident tone Tommy uses.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever told you that, Oliver, but it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t ask to wash up on that island.”

Oliver’s mind takes a moment to think about what life would be like if he hadn’t washed up there. Not for him, but the people who’d been there. Would Yao Fei have ever been captured? Would he and Slade ever have made it off the island together, enacting their plan to take the airbase? Or would Fyers still have used Shado as leverage over her father, killing her and Yao Fei when their parts were done, leaving Slade alone on the island until Ivo showed up?

The questions are pointless. There’s really no way to know.

“Can I… can I ask what that has to do with everything that’s happening now?” Tommy asks hesitantly in the silence. Not so much from his own uncertainty, it seems like, but from true concern for Oliver. That’s a strange emotion to see directed at him for once, at least when it’s not Digg or Felicity looking at him after he’d been injured.

There are no visible wounds on him right now, but Tommy doesn’t look any less concerned than Oliver’s partners usually are at the sight of blood.

“You don’t have to answer,” Tommy continues.

Oliver looks away again, back to the trees. Digg and Felicity know about his hallucinations. Digg had even admitted that he’d had his own trouble with seeing things when he’d first come home.

“I’ve been seeing him,” he admits. “I know he’s not real. But…” he struggles to speak. Struggles to say the words. “He was the first man I ever saw injected with Mirakuru.”

Tommy doesn’t know the whole story, but he seems to understand, at the very least, that it’s not so much the Mirakuru that Oliver’s struggling with but the memories that come along with it.

“I can’t… I don’t know what happened to you there. I can’t believe that you would ever willingly betray someone like that. But… he’s not here. You’re not there. I still… I still see that cell sometimes. In the parking garage when it’s dark. In the closet.” Tommy grits his teeth and looks away for a moment. “I don’t know what happened,” he continues. “But you’re a hero now. You’re saving lives. You’re _going_ to stop this. And if you ever need reminding that you’re not there, that you’ve made it home… I’m always free, man. Always.”

Oliver doesn’t move for a moment. Doesn’t let any of his emotions onto his expression. Tommy’d been right about one thing – there’s been a lot of back and forth between them over the months. A lot of hesitance and reluctance on both sides, each of them backing away from each other. He hadn’t minded so much, so long as Tommy had been alive, and healthy, and happy.

He’s thought more than once that he would be able to handle Tommy hating him, so long as Tommy was alive.

But this… This is more than he could have ever hoped for. He remembers, once again, the hug Tommy had engulfed him in when he’d gotten home. Tommy’s his brother. Always has been.

Maybe that back and forth between them is finally over. Tommy looks at peace with his choices, and Oliver knows perfectly well he’ll take whatever he can get.

He looks over at Tommy and, somehow, it seems as though Tommy knows exactly what’s going through Oliver’s mind no matter how reserved Oliver is acting. Tommy opens his arms.

“I’m going to hug you now, man,” he says with a soft grin.

Oliver swallows, nods, and folds himself into the embrace gladly.

* * *

“Your girlfriend’s taking too long.”

The words are frustrated, there’s no doubt about that, but they don’t have the bitter twist that probably would have filled them last month, before Sin and Thea had really become friends (even if Roy isn’t entirely certain if Sin would be willing to admit that out loud yet).

He flexes his fingers, tensing and untensing the muscles in his forearm. He’d gotten his cast off earlier that day, or, yesterday by now, and he doesn’t entirely disagree with Sin.

Still. Thea’d gotten _kidnapped_. She is allowed to take some time to process that, even if it frustrates Roy that she isn’t coming to him with her troubles.

“The trail’s going cold,” Sin continues passionately. “Whatever happened to Max –”

“I know,” Roy cuts her off. This isn’t TV with strict twenty-four-hour or forty-eight-hour time limits, but the longer they go without investigating Max’s death the less likely it is that they’ll actually find something. “I was going to look into the blood drive. Have you had any luck with his other friends?”

Sin shakes her head, giving Roy a look like she’s surprised he was already looking into it. “I don’t know many of Max’s other friends. But there’s one other guy I can try and track down.”

Roy nods. “We can talk to Thea again tomorrow morning, but there’s no point waiting around. You do that. The blood drive should have files on their donors. I’ll see what Max’s says.”

“When?”

Roy looks around the darkened parking lot of Verdant after closing. “No time like the present, right?”

Sin grins in response, clearly glad they’re finally looking into her friend’s death. “Right? Meet up at your place, in an hour?”

“Works for me,” Roy agrees, and watches her walk away for a bit before heading out himself. Sin had been the one to say it, but Roy’d been feeling impatient long before the end of their shift together at Verdant. Yeah, _Thea’s_ recovering from her kidnapping, but since she isn’t coming to him he’s got little to do with his time. And he’s _tired_ of just being the Arrow’s ears on the streets. He wants to _do_ something. Wants to _prove_ he can do something. (The way he hadn’t been able to do for Thea.)

He already knows the address where the blood drive was based out of. It’s not far from Verdant and he heads there without thinking, without texting Thea. He doesn’t need to call Green Arrow for this. He can handle it himself.

Breaking in is easy, they won’t even be able to tell he was there. Finding Max’s file isn’t even all that hard either, though it takes a little longer. Except then there’s a man pouring gasoline, and Roy runs, and then a pain radiates through his skull and the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, Barry's headed home now. Hope you liked his part in this "crossover". Chapter 28: Strength, will be posted tomorrow, and that should be the end of the quick sequence of chapters for now.


	28. Strength

_December 10-11, 2013:_

In the last hours before Tuesday ends and Wednesday begins, Lance calls the Arrow with news that he doesn’t want to share over the phone.

“You sure you’re good to go?” Felicity asks worriedly as Oliver throws the hood over his head.

Oliver hasn’t told them about every instance he’s hallucinated something in the past two days since he’d almost died, but they know he’s still seeing things, even though most of the bruises have faded from his body. (The deeper aches, not so much, but the surface bruises are more or less gone.)

“It’s just a meeting,” he reminds her, but, given that she and Digg had walked in on him standing taut, arrow aimed at empty space, when they’d arrived that evening, he can’t blame her for her caution. Still, he knows enough not to shoot at the sight of the long dead while the living are still around him. (He _hates_ not being able to trust his own mind. There have been times in his life when that had been the only thing he could trust.)

“Stay safe,” Digg says.

Oliver doesn’t reply, mostly because he knows he’s not the only one rattled by his near-death experience. He hasn’t been in a fight since, but Digg had had his own close encounter within twenty-four hours of Oliver’s. The Mirakuru has them all on edge.

* * *

Hwang is at the meeting place instead of Lance, standing in the only ray of streetlight on the short rooftop Oliver’d chosen as a meeting place. It throws him for a moment, the sight of her standing there calmly in her uniform, gun at her hip, badge on her chest, feet solidly planted against the concrete.

She looks unmovable. Relaxed. Ready.

She looks like she has no idea about what Oliver’s putting her up against.

She looks young.

He almost turns and leaves before she spots him. Almost. This is Mirakuru after all; he’s already made his decision. And so has she.

“Sorry about this,” she says easily. “Lance got held up by the captain, sent me instead.”

Oliver’s… not sure how to feel about that. He’s worked with Hwang here and there, yes, but mostly in terms of handing off petty criminals to her on Lance’s nights off. Lance is the one he passes information to.

“He said to tell you to get over yourself, that he’d be here if he could, but if we want to catch this guy he needs all the support we can get,” she continues calmly in the silence.

So, Lance is talking to his superiors about going after Gold, Oliver surmises.

“He also said that I’d have to be an idiot not to know that you had another way of passing intel onto him, and that I would have found out eventually.”

She knows about the phone, then too.

“What did the detective want to talk to me about?” he asks. It’s a subtle dig and he knows it – and she probably knows it too – but he’s not sure he’s quite ready for Hwang to be on the same level as Lance in regard to how much he trusts her. Besides, it had been Lance who’d called him. He’s not happy about the switch, and he doesn’t care if word of that gets back to the detective.

“We think we found Cyrus Gold,” Hwang says plainly. There’s a thread of anticipation running through her though that reminds Oliver of why she probably became a cop. He adds _thrill seeker_ to his mental file on Hwang, even if that’s not her driving motivation. “The taskforce’s been working on it since you filled in the detective. Now that we’re pretty sure, we’re looping in the rest of the force, assembling some SWAT teams. We’ve even had some volunteers. Detective Lance thought you ought to know.”

“Where?”

She tells him. “Raid should be in two hours from now, if all goes to plan.”

“You can’t underestimate Gold.”

“We don’t plan to. Detective Lance probably used up the last of his favors, but they’ve authorized the use of nitrous oxide to clear the building.”

Sleeping gas. There’s a reason the police don’t typically use it – any drug is finnicky, reacting differently in different people depending on their weight, medical history, and other factors. But if the SWAT teams had been authorized to use lethal force anyway, it’s not really all that different in Oliver’s mind. In his mind, at least. He can’t imagine the favors that Lance had to pull to get that authorized. He hadn’t even been able to provide any proof of the Mirakuru.

They’re relying entirely on his word. Oliver’d known his word had gained some weight with the city, after the miniquake, but it’s one thing to know it and another thing entirely to see it in action.

He nods once, ignoring the sight of Slade looming in a distant corner of the shadowed rooftop.

“How goes your recovery?” Hwang asks.

Oliver tenses at the question. He’d told Lance that he’d been compromised, not injured.

Hwang probably doesn’t notice his small movement, but she doesn’t need to. His silence is answer enough in the moment. “Oh come on, it’s pretty obvious. You’re not really the kind to sit this kind of thing out.”

Oliver’s not about to admit that even at his healthiest he’s not sure he could take on Gold one on one. Not until he manages to clear his head at least, and stop thinking about Slade and the _Amazo_ every time he hears the word Mirakuru. That had been his downfall last time.

“I’m working on another lead,” he says instead. He doesn’t need to explain himself to Hwang, and it’s not entirely false – what they’ve found out about Cyrus Gold, what the man had actually told Oliver during their fight, has made it clear that he’s not the mastermind behind the Mirakuru. He doesn’t have the scientific background to mass produce the serum on his own. (And there’s still the question of where the formula even came from in the first place. Stolen from ARGUS? Had someone gone back to Lian Yu? Had the Japanese had additional records, stored somewhere else?)

He doesn’t give Hwang a chance to respond, firing a grappling arrow at a nearby building and disappearing into the night.

* * *

“Something doesn’t seem right.”

Tense – from the talk with Hwang, from the sight of Slade again, from the fact that the police are going up against Gold without him – Oliver glances over at Felicity’s worried expression. It hasn’t even been an hour since his return, so the raid hasn’t started yet, but she’s biting her lip, frowning at the screen in concentration.

Digg looks up from where he’d been cleaning his gun. “What’s not right?”

Felicity shakes her head. “Gold’s location. That building, it’s abandoned.”

“He wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself,” Oliver tells her, not because he thinks she hasn’t spotted something strange, but to prompt her to explain further. An abandoned building is a decent hideout, if you set things up properly.

“No, I mean, yes, that would help, but it’s not connected to the power grid. Even if they have their own generators, you’d need massive amounts of power to run that centrifuge. Not to mention store all that blood in the proper temperature-controlled environment.”

Oliver doesn’t doubt Felicity’s mental calculations. He doesn’t doubt the conclusion she’s illustrating with her words either. “We knew that Gold isn’t the mastermind,” he reminds her.

“Is there any way to look for buildings that are drawing that level of power?”

Felicity grimaces in regret. “Maybe ‘massive amounts of power’ wasn’t the best description – any office building in the Glades of a semi-decent size would have enough. I just meant that a single generator wouldn’t do it.”

So there’s no way to narrow down the location based on power usage alone. Oliver furrows his brow in concentration, running scenarios in his mind.

Digg spots his look easily. “You think it’s a trap?”

Oliver’s not willing to discount the possibility. “Even if it was,” he reminds them, “Hwang told me they authorized the use of sleeping gas on the building – only the taskforce even knows about it. Gold’s metabolism might be increased – I don’t know – but even he won’t be able to fight off the effects for long.”

“Could he be sleeping there?” Felicity suggests. “Since we kicked him out of his motel, so to speak?”

The more Oliver thinks about it, the more he starts to think that it probably _is_ a trap. How did the police track down Gold to an abandoned building in the Glades that _isn’t_ where the Mirakuru was produced? Hwang hadn’t mentioned anything about associates, which means that it’s probably only Gold that they have confirmation of going into and out of the building. Is it a trap meant for them, or for him?

“I’ll tell the detective to use caution,” Oliver says. “In the meantime, let’s see if we can narrow down a base of operations.” His phone ringing interrupts him before he can say anything more. It’s Oliver’s phone this time, not the Arrow’s, and Thea’s name that flashes on the screen. An internal debate wars within Oliver for a moment. But the last time he’d seen Thea, she’d stormed off from him, and she _knows_ what he spends his nights doing now. Surely she wouldn’t call unless it was serious. He answers the phone.

“We need to talk. Now. It’s serious,” she says, before he can even get in a greeting. “I’m upstairs.” She hangs up.

The desperate urgency of Thea’s tone sticks in Oliver’s mind and he’s moving even as he pockets his phone again. But then he hesitates at the bottom of the stairs and turns back to his partners.

Communication. Compromise. And, despite what they’d done ( _to save your life_ ), he’s not about to reveal their secrets without their consent.

“Thea’s upstairs,” he tells them. “She doesn’t know either of you are involved yet.”

Digg and Felicity exchange glances, shrugging.

“Don’t see why she shouldn’t know,” Digg says easily.

Oliver studies both of their expressions. Their casualness doesn’t seem forced. Not that he’d expected them to be worried about Thea knowing about their involvement, but it’s good to see regardless. He nods once, then hurries up the stairs.

“Entrance is clear!” Felicity calls up after him.

Oliver opens the door secure in the knowledge that no one will see down into the basement but Thea and hurries his sister inside. She’s already talking.

“Roy’s missing. We’ve been looking into Sin’s friend’s death, but they didn’t wait for me, and the blood drive burned down and Sin can’t find Roy.”

“Slow down, Thea,” Oliver says, his own heartrate rising at her frantic words. She needs to be clearheaded if she wants him to understand the problem. He takes his hand off her elbow as they reach the bottom of the stairs, turning her around to face him. She doesn’t even seem to have noticed Digg or Felicity. “Start from the beginning.”

Thea takes a deep breath. “It’s Sin’s friend, Max. He showed up dead a couple days ago – the police said from an overdose, but Sin said he didn’t do drugs. He donated blood for money. So we started looking into it.”

A wave of frustration and anger washes over Oliver. He wants to ask Thea why, if she has any idea of how dangerous that was – Sin’s a Glades resident through and through, which means Max was too, and if the police are brushing it under the rug it’s either serious or they seriously don’t care – but she only pauses to catch her breath, not long enough for him to interject.

“I asked them to wait, until I figured out what was going on with you –” she gestures vaguely at his whole body, and, even through her worry for Roy, Oliver can tell she’s not pleased with him “– but they didn’t. Roy went to the place where the blood drive was held, to try and get Max’s file, except there was a fire there and now Sin can’t get a hold of him. His phone goes straight to voicemail every time I try.”

Oliver doesn’t have nearly enough information yet to believe that Roy’s in any danger but he knows well enough that a destroyed phone works the same as one that’s turned off – which means that Felicity won’t be able to track him that way.

“Let me try,” he offers. Roy has more than one phone, and Oliver knows he keeps them both on him at all times. But he doesn’t immediately pull out his phone. Instead, he turns to Felicity, who’s heard enough of the conversation to already have guessed Oliver’s next step.

Most phones, normal phones, don’t really have any way to relay the fact that they’ve been damaged, or destroyed. Numbers don’t really connect to physical devices. Well, they do, for actual phone calls, but there’s no way to tell _why_ a call goes to voice mail, if the phone is off or in pieces. The phones that he hands out to his allies, however…

“It’s been destroyed,” Felicity says grimly, spinning back to them. “Or at least, damaged enough that it’s not transmitting a signal anymore.”

Thea’s already shoving her phone toward his face. “Here. Sin sent me the picture he took. Does that look like a drug overdose to you?”

There’s blood dripping from the eyes of the young man on the screen. He’s dead, and Thea’s stiff with tension and worry, and Digg and Felicity are clearly curious, but there’s _blood dripping from the eyes of the young man on the screen_ and it’s all Oliver can see for a moment.

He remembers what happened to Slade like it was yesterday. His face, badly burnt from the explosion. The creaking metal of the sub and the cramped quarters the four of them had shoved themselves into. The last hope of the Mirakuru. Slade’s (seemingly) final, desperate breaths.

And the blood dripping from his eyes.

Thea’s friend – Roy’s friend, Sin’s friend, whoever he is – is dead. He won’t be getting back up again, not like Slade had.

“Did you really think you could keep her out of it, kid?” Slade asks him critically, somewhere off to Oliver’s left. “How many times do you have keep putting your friends – your _family_ – in danger before you get the hint? Or are you going to wait until it’s too late? You’re not a hero, kid. You couldn’t even save yourself.”

“Oliver?”

Deep breaths. Oliver’s not sure if it was Digg or Felicity calling his name, but it doesn’t matter. No, he’s not a hero. No, he couldn’t save himself. But he’d damn himself to another year of hell if it meant keeping Thea safe. He’s hasn’t been fighting for himself since he snapped Taiania’s neck on Lian Yu. He’d been fighting for her, after that, and now that he’s come home he’s been fighting for them, the people here in this basement. Tommy. Laurel. His mother even, Walter, Roy, Lance, the people of Star City. But not for himself.

“Go home,” he tells his little sister.

She frowns at him, probably disturbed by his reaction – how long had he lost focus for? – but in the end focuses more on his words. “What?”

“I don’t want you involved in this. We’ll find Roy. Go home.”

He should have known better than to phrase it like that. He should have known better than to think that would work. But he’s rattled ( _still_ rattled, ever since he’d realized Mirakuru was in his life again, and he doesn’t know how to get his focus back).

Instead of obediently turning and walking back up the stairs, Thea looks around, finally taking in Felicity and Digg. 

“No,” she says defiantly. “No. You let them help. You’ve let Roy and Tommy and even Laurel help. Why not me?”

Oliver takes another deep breath and manages to think rationally. This is Thea. His stubborn, obstinate, _loyal_ little sister. She won’t listen to most of the arguments he has on the tip of his tongue, all the reasons he doesn’t want her involved, all the danger he’d be putting her in.

She’d fight that.

“You’re too close to this,” he says instead.

Thea wasn’t expecting that argument. She takes a step back. “And you weren’t, when you rescued Tommy?”

That was different. Oliver’s had training. He knows how to set his emotions aside and consider all tactical options. And he’d been the only one looking. But this… Thea has no training, and she doesn’t need to be the one to track down Roy. Not when he’s here to do it for her.

“Oliver…” Digg says, low and careful from behind him.

Oliver’s pretty sure he’s not warning him to be careful in what he says next. There’s an urgency to Digg’s tone that suggests otherwise, at least.

Every minute he wastes arguing with Thea is another minute Roy’s in danger. He can kick Thea out – and keep her out – once Roy’s been found.

Oliver spins back to Felicity.

“Already got the location of the blood drive,” she tells him, with her usual grimness that comes during any urgent situation when someone’s in danger. “It’s sponsored by Alderman Blood, but the business running it isn’t any of the large hospitals – it’s a clinic in the Glades. And the building caught fire not too long ago.”

Thea tenses at Oliver’s side, a sharp intake of breath signaling her shock. “Roy –” she starts to say. She’d known about the fire already, of course, but the image on the screen isn’t encouraging.

Oliver cuts her off, striding toward the computers. Now isn’t the time to think about her and Roy and their friend, getting involved in dangerous things – in Mirakuru – without telling him or the Arrow. “Any casualties?”

Felicity shakes her head. “No, thank goodness. I mean, it’s the middle of the night, so I wouldn’t really expect anyone to be there – except Roy, you know – but the fire didn’t last too long and the fireman have already cleared the structure. There’s no –”

“This says they suspect arson,” Digg interrupts. He’s standing over Felicity’s other shoulder now, reading the same screens as Oliver.

“Someone didn’t want those files read,” Oliver agrees. Of course, it’ll take time for the SCFD to prove arson, but the circumstances are too suspicious – too coincidental – for Oliver to think anything but. “Cameras in the area?”

Felicity’s rapid typing fills the large room for a moment as she switches programs, pulling up their interactive map of Star City, complete with all the cameras, marked by those they have access to and those they don’t. “Nothing on the building,” she relays, “but, here.” She selects something on the screen with finality, typing Roy’s name in. “I set up facial recognition on the nearest cameras. There’s only six, so it should be –”

‘ _No Results’_ flashes on the screen, but Oliver doesn’t let that dampen his mood. The cameras they do have don’t canvas the area very well, and anyway, Roy’s rather fond of his hoodie. Facial recognition isn’t all that reliable yet, especially only with partial faces.

“Schematics?”

Felicity pulls them up. Oliver gets to work mapping entrances and exits, probable routes given the nearby streets and the direction Roy was coming from. Digg and Felicity each take a computer, fast-forwarding through the last couple of hours of footage manually for anyone matching Roy’s description, or carrying equipment that could have started the fire. They’re only at it a minute or two before Thea jolts out of the stupor she’d entered at seeing them in action.

She steps forward. “I want to help,” she demands.

Oliver grits his teeth. He doesn’t want her anywhere near this. He’d specifically asked her and Tommy to stay away from Mirakuru. But then, he supposes, she also has no idea that that is what this _is_. Even if she had wanted to listen to him, there’s no way she could have known that what she and her friends are investigating is the exact thing he’d told her to stay away from. Not with the little information he’d managed to share with her. (He only has himself to blame.)

“See if you can help Digg or Felicity find Roy on the security footage,” Oliver says shortly. He doesn’t bother with introductions or explanations. They’ve all met before, however briefly, and if Thea wants to know more about how Digg and Felicity got involved, she can ask them on her own time.

Thea doesn’t immediately look pleased at the task, but she doesn’t argue, moving to Felicity’s side. If she’s curious about their operations, her worry for Roy overrides it.

With Thea scanning through footage, Felicity switches tracks, working with Oliver to track down information about the blood drive in particular. The digitalized patient information is sparse, mostly just names and contact info, but when Felicity pulls out those names of young, Glades residents with no emergency contacts entered in the system there’s a small percentage of them who’ve gone missing the past few months.

Small, but significant.

Oliver grits his teeth and turns to Thea. “Walk me through what you guys were doing?”

She tells him, speaking quick and tense, clearly eager to feel like she’s actually doing something in looking for Roy. (He’s only been missing a couple hours at most, but Oliver can’t blame Thea for her reaction. Between their kidnapping and Tommy’s, and everything else that’s happened in her life, a little paranoia is to be expected. He’s not happy to see it, but he understands it.)

The timing of his sister’s friends’ investigation also seems too coincidental. They’d gone looking for Max, and then they’d found him, dead. Oliver wonders what would happen if someone else went looking for other blood drive participants who seem to have dropped off the radar.

Truthfully, there’s nothing concrete to even suggest Roy’s in danger from the little information they have, but the little doubt Oliver had had at the beginning is gone. Roy had gone intending to snoop around a clearly suspicious building, which had then proceeded to catch on fire. Now they’ve lost all contact with him.

“Got something!” Felicity declares happily.

As one, they all spin toward her. She doesn’t wait for Oliver’s prompting before she continues.

“The company that owns the building that the blood drive was held in, it’s a dead end,” she says quickly, clearly working up to the good news. “It’s a shell company of a shell company, and it’d take me too long to trace it back to whoever put the paperwork in place. _However_ , they do own four other structures in the Glades.”

Four. That’s a nice, small number, plenty easy to search through.

“Pull them up,” Oliver orders, but Felicity’s already done so. None of the immediately stand out, but he hadn’t expected them to, not based on location alone.

“Occupied,” Felicity mutters, eliminating one building. It’s a shelter – hunting ground or genuine philanthropy, it’s difficult to say with what little they know. “This one’s registered as an office building, not a lot of space,” Felicity continues, pointing. “These two don’t have night hours and they’ve got sturdy, concrete basements.”

Oliver knows all eyes are on him but he stands stock still, thinking hard, trying to connect the dots in his mind. Cyrus Gold was injected with Mirakuru and survived the process. Max Stanton was injected and didn’t. His body only showed up days after he’d gone missing, when Roy, Thea, and Sin started looking into his disappearance. The police claim that Stanton died from an overdose, and the building he’d been regularly donating blood to has just caught fire. Roy, who’d presumably gone there to investigate, can’t be reached. The police have tracked Gold to an abandoned building, with plans to raid it in about fifteen minutes.

Cyrus Gold was not the mastermind behind his own enhancement, but he _is_ a fanatic, devoted to whoever had given him the drug. There’s someone behind it all, pulling the strings.

Oliver revises his opinion of the medical office that had hosted the blood drive. He doesn’t have enough details. They could be a hunting ground, but that doesn’t mean anyone that works there knows what’s going on. They can investigate that avenue, but they don’t have the time right now if Roy’s really in danger.

His gaze goes again to the three pins in the map on Felicity’s screen. (She’s getting good at this, looking straight at the basements as possible bases for their criminals to operate out of while he thinks.)

“What do we do now?” Thea asks anxiously.

He doesn’t have an answer – not yet – so Oliver ignores the question.

Chances are, Stanton wasn’t the only one the Mirakuru was tested on. Chances are, Gold was the first one (hopefully only one) it worked on. But they’ve got a centrifuge now, and the supplies to make more.

“The centrifuge in the warehouse, it was bolted to the floor,” Oliver says tentatively, testing the thought by voicing it aloud.

Felicity frowns at him but Digg picks up what he’s getting at after only a moment.

“Does it need to be?” he asks Felicity. “To work properly?”

“It has to be secured _somehow_ ,” Felicity agrees pensively, still not quite connecting the dots. “Which means…?”

“Concrete foundation.”

The lightbulb clicks on and Felicity spins back to the computers, typing again. “Well, that definitely eliminates the office building then, but we’ve still got the two others.”

“We can look into both,” Digg offers, testing what Oliver thinks of the idea, seemingly hesitant himself.

He doesn’t like the suggestion. Roy could already be dead, if he’d been caught snooping. And if not… They’re injected kids from the Glades with Mirakuru, kids with no family who might miss them. Oliver doesn’t think anyone else has made that connection yet, but then, the bleeding eyes don’t mean anything to Digg or Felicity.

Struck by the image Thea had shown him, Oliver hadn’t said anything, just jumped into action.

“You think this is linked to the Mirakuru?” Felicity asks, probably the question both she and Digg had been wondering.

“I know it is,” Oliver says. He should tell them why. He wants to tell them why. But he very pointedly does not want to think about Slade dying in that submarine, or the man who’d surfaced when it was all over. He doesn’t think he could bring himself to say the words. “I’ve seen the effects of Mirakuru before,” he manages to grind out through gritted teeth, nodding at Thea’s phone, still in her hand.

Thea looks like she’s torn between questioning him further and worrying about Roy, but thankfully – though looking equally curious – Felicity and Digg let the matter drop, turning back to their work.

“Well, both buildings are hooked up to the power grid, and they both have concrete foundations, and they’re both in the Glades.”

Oliver looks again at the positioning of all the buildings: Gold’s motel room and his current hide-out; the blood-drive facility; the two pinpricks on the map in front of him. He’d gotten lucky, when he’d deduced which building Tommy was in a month ago. He can’t rely on luck again. He looks at the clock. Ten minutes until the raid. Can he wait that long, to see what they turn up? What kind of evidence could Gold have on him, that could potentially lead Oliver to his real base of operations?

“Nearby cameras?”

“We could look at traffic levels,” Digg agrees. “See which one has more people coming and going.”

If they’re injecting people with Mirakuru, taking their dead or unconscious forms into and out of the building, then they’d need somewhere secluded. Unfortunately, there’s not really a good neighborhood in the Glades. In the middle of the night, both buildings are suitably cloaked in darkness.

They search through traffic cameras, watching cars come and go on the nearby streets. Five minutes until the raid. There’s really no point in heading out beforehand, not when Gold might have something that points Oliver in the right direction. With Tommy, at least he’d been able to make an educated guess, a reasonable assumption. Here, he can’t see anything that makes this more than a 50-50 chance.

He steps away from the computers. “Gold might be able to tell us something,” he says.

“If he’s in the mood to talk,” Digg comments grimly, but they both know that Gold doesn’t need to actually speak to pass along information to them.

Oliver goes to change. He can hear Thea asking about Roy as he walks away, but the others should fill her in. He knows better than to call Lance, or even Hwang, in the middle of the raid, so he heads out on his motorbike instead. His ribs are still bruised and his body still aching from nearly dying, but with Roy missing he doesn’t want to wait until tomorrow, after the SCPD have had time to process and catalog all the evidence. He needs to know what Gold does as soon as possible.

* * *

The raid… Well, it doesn’t go poorly, by Oliver’s estimations at least. Either Gold had managed to avoid the majority of the sleeping gas, or the Mirakuru had enhanced his metabolism, because he’d still been swinging when the SWAT teams had stormed the building. Even with their body armor, one man’s currently being rushed to the hospital in critical condition, three others have clearly broken bones, and a few more are banged up. But Gold’s in custody.

Oliver can’t help but worry that the SCPD won’t be able to hold him, but they’ve seen what he’s capable of now. Any doubt Lance’s superiors had had should be gone. (In the back of his mind, Oliver realizes this, hopefully, means that the city’s trust in him – the SCPD’s trust in him – will only increase, now that they’ve seen what Gold is capable of.) Besides, that’s not his problem right now. Roy is.

“Are there more men like him?” Lance asks in the alley they’re tucked in, just out of sight of the hustle and bustle of SWAT cleaning up after the raid.

“I don’t know,” the Arrow admits gruffly.

Lance gives him a hard look, searching for answers somehow. “You know what this is.”

Oliver’d already told him he had, more or less, that first time he’d filled the detective in about Gold, but seeing is believing he supposes. And Lance’s comment was a question more than a statement. He thinks of the image of Max Stanton’s corpse, blood trails across his cheekbones.

“Gold wasn’t behind the thefts. There’s no reason his benefactor can’t make more of the drug that enhanced his strength,” Oliver admits.

Lance shifts unhappily at the news, glancing back toward where the rest of the SCPD is working. “I was afraid you’d say that,” he says.

Oliver waits. From the way the conversation has gone so far, he doesn’t think he’s going to have to ask for anything.

“Here, fine,” Lance says unhappily, handing over a small evidence bag. “We’re still searching the building, but that’s everything he had on him.”

Cell phone. A key. It’s not much at all, but it should be more than enough for Oliver – for Felicity. He nods his thanks, pulls the phone out of the bag (he’s wearing gloves; Lance doesn’t complain) and sticks a microUSB into the port. Within a minute he’s got all the data on the cell phone in his hands. He puts it back in the bag, takes out the key, and hands the bag back to Lance.

“What, not going to make an impression?” Lance asks humorlessly, still clearly unsettled by the fact that he’s handed over evidence to the Arrow – and maybe partially by what he’d seen that night.

“You’ll have it back by the morning,” Oliver says.

“Don’t bother,” Lance returns. “Chain of custody’s ruined now.”

It doesn’t really matter – if the key is the key, so to speak, of breaking the case, then Oliver will take care of it. If not, then the police haven’t really lost anything, have they? He’d mostly just been trying to be polite, to not strain his already tenuous relationship with Detective Lance. (Too often, lately, the man’s been turning to him for help. Oliver’s not sure how much more of that the normally law-abiding detective will be able to take.)

* * *

There’s a lot of information on the phone, there’s no doubt about that, but a quick trace of the serial number on the key pinpoints the address on Crescent Circle. Oliver’s still in his suit, so he readies himself to leave again for the second time that night.

“You can’t go out there right now,” Felicity stops him worriedly, with an uncertain glance over at Thea.

“The police have Gold,” Oliver reminds her.

“And are you sure he’s the only one in Star City on Mirakuru?”

No, Oliver isn’t. But Roy’s (hopefully) out there, and not only Roy but also the mastermind behind Gold’s enhanced strength in the first place. Oliver doesn’t have many other options.

“I have to stop this.” He cannot let them produce any more Mirakuru. He cannot let them kill Roy, or worse.

“We could get the police involved –” Digg starts.

“We can’t risk it.”

“Oliver,” Felicity says hesitantly, with another glance over at Thea. “If you’re still –”

“We don’t have any other options,” Oliver says, cutting her off too.

“How badly _are_ you hurt?” Thea steps forward, looking torn.

“I’m fine,” Oliver says. She opens her mouth but he cuts her off. “I’m _fine_ ,” he repeats firmly. “And I’m going to get Roy back.”

“What about you?” Felicity interrupts.

“I’m going to get Roy, and then I’m going to come back,” Oliver vows.

It doesn’t seem to assuage Felicity’s worry, or Digg’s from the looks of him. Oliver knows the last time he went out to fight he almost hadn’t come back – he wouldn’t have, if Digg and Felicity hadn’t come to get him. Gold’s no longer a threat, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t someone else with Mirakuru in their blood out there.

“Promise me,” Felicity demands.

She’s taking his near-death experience harder than he’d thought she would. She hasn’t really settled down, even with Barry Allen gone.

Oliver doesn’t answer her, but he does look over at Thea. There’s a hard expression in her eyes and a deep worry. She looks like she wants to tell Oliver to stay. She looks like she wants to tell him to hurry up and leave.

They both know how easily promises can be broken.

Oliver leaves without another word spoken.

* * *

A cursory look at the building makes it clear that, whatever’s going on, it’s happening in the basement, as Felicity had expected. Oliver charges in firing, one, two, three arrows finding their homes in the shins of men dressed like the muscle. Another man in a strange skull mask stands over the figure of Roy bound to a chair, needle in his hand.

The leader. This is Oliver’s chance.

He holds the bow string taut, fletching against his fingers.

“Brother Cyrus told me he killed you,” the masked man says. He’s got a voice modulator similar to Oliver’s own and he doesn’t sound worried. That might just be an act though, because Oliver’s already taken out his guards. ( _Brother_ Cyrus. This is sounding more and more like some sick cult the more Oliver discovers about the operations.)

“Guess he's not as strong as you'd hoped,” he growls back. “Where'd you get the Mirakuru?” The man doesn’t immediately respond and Oliver doesn’t give him much time to think on it. “Who gave you the formula?!”

“It was a gift,” the man replies, more or less calmly. “A gift I would use to save this city from itself.”

Beside him, Roy groans in agony, teeth gritted, muscles taut. He doesn’t appear to be aware of anything around him, and the needle in the man’s hand looks empty. The distraction costs Oliver – one of the men he’d hit before has surged up from the floor and Oliver just barely dodges the bullet aimed at his face. He has to throw himself to the side, onto the ground, because he wasn’t paying attention, and the impact rattles his aching body badly enough to distract his mind for a second.

No longer in a good position to fire his arrow, Oliver rolls to the side as another bullet impacts the concrete where he had just been lying, managing to use the motion to get into a crouch at the very least. All three men are upright again, though one of them is kneeling similarly to Oliver to alleviate his injury. They’re determined enough to fight through their wounds, a determination that does nothing to shake Oliver’s thoughts of how cult-like the group seems to be. Most people, once they get an arrow to the shin, learn to stay down when up against him.

He swaps arrows in his quiver and pins one of the men to the wall before he has to stagger to his feet and engage in hand-to-hand combat with a man who’s already pulled the arrow out of his leg. He dodges a few blows, gets in a hit or two of his own, and then suddenly it’s two on one, the third man unexpectedly joining the fight.

Even aching and bruised from his fight, even not at the top of his game, Oliver’s ultimately not worried about losing. Then two more men, fresh and uninjured, run into the room, entering the fray. (The masked man stands watching and nearly motionless, still projecting calm and a lack of concern. Oliver keeps an eye on him but he’s not in the fight and he’s got more important things to think about.)

Well, he needs to destroy the already created vials of Mirakuru anyway, and the fridge full of stolen blood. Oliver nocks an arrow, pretty sure that when it hits his target the centrifuge will explode. He’s far closer than he would normally allow himself to be when triggering an explosion, but he’s not sure Roy has the time for him to struggle through this fight.

He takes a deep breath, fires, then relaxes his muscles and ducks away as the electronics explode. He and his enemies both go flying.

Oliver hits the ground hard, vision blacking for a moment, torso a bundle of pain, jaw clenched tight, shoulder numb from the impact. Roy’s stopped crying out in pain, and Oliver’s only a few feet away from him now. He watches, feeling like he wouldn’t be able to stand, as the masked man places his fingers on Roy’s throat.

“Another failure.”

_Another failure._ The words echo through Oliver’s mind. The man means that his latest attempt to create a Mirakuru soldier didn’t work, but Oliver hears something else entirely. Another failure. Another person he couldn’t save. Another reason why he’s not cut out to do this. It’s the same thing Shado and Slade have been telling him since he’d almost died trying to take down Gold two days ago.

People have died on him, since his return to Star City. There’ve been civilians he’s been unable to save. Petty criminals who didn’t deserve death caught up in friendly fire from their own side. But since donning the hood – since coming home, since leaving Lian Yu behind – Oliver hasn’t lost anyone he actually knows. Not like all those friends and allies he’d seen die during those five years. (He’s not counting Malcolm Merlyn.)

Now Roy sits before him, unmoving. Oliver’s entire body aches. He thinks of Thea, waiting for the both of them in the foundry basement. He thinks of Diggle and Felicity. Slade, and Shado. He doesn’t know why he ever thought he would be enough – he never has been before.

“Get up, Oliver.” The words are firm. Determined.

Oliver blinks. He knows Tommy’s not here, _knows_ it, and yet… “Tommy?”

“You’re not going to die down here.”

So apparently he can hallucinate the living, as well as the dead. Well, he supposes there was no reason that it wasn’t possible. He tries to tune Tommy out best he can. He can already imagine what worst case scenario his mind has probably come up with. He doesn’t need to hear his best friend call him a murderer again, doesn’t need another reminder of what a failure he is, other than Roy’s body right in front of him.

“Get up, Ollie,” Tommy repeats, more forcefully, crouching down in front of Oliver.

“I’m a murderer,” Oliver says, dismissing him, thinking of Roy, wondering if all of the thugs caught in the explosion will be waking up tonight.

“No,” Tommy counters, so quickly, so fiercely, that Oliver’s startled from his own pain and grief. He knows Tommy’s been trying to reconnect with him – sending jokes in his text messages, scheduling dinners and lunches, supporting him, even when Thea had gotten upset with his decisions – but this…

“You are not a murderer, Oliver. I was wrong. You’re a fighter. You’re a hero. You beat the island. You beat my father. So fight, Oliver. Get up and fight back!”

Tommy’s waiting for him to come home. _Thea’s_ waiting for him to come home. Felicity and Digg too. His mother’s trial is in a few weeks. Laurel’s already lost her sister. And there’s still a chance for Roy – Slade had survived when it had seemed all hope was lost, after all.

“Kill him,” the masked man says in the background.

It’s hard to focus. It’s hard to move. Oliver’s ears are still ringing from the explosion. His whole body aches. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, pounding in time to his heartbeat. But Tommy vanishes as he struggles to his feet, and the last enemy standing isn’t much of a challenge, similarly rattled by the explosion.

The ringleader runs. Oliver doesn’t consider chasing after him. He’s in no shape to do so, and Roy needs him. Blinking aside the blurriness of his vision, Oliver slices the bonds holding Roy to the chair and starts in on CPR. He doesn’t know what he says to the kid, doesn’t know how long he works, palms pressing against Roy’s chest, but eventually Roy gasps another breath and Oliver lets himself slump in relief.

Roy’s got Mirakuru in his system, but he’s alive, and Oliver’s destroyed the current stock of the drug. Anything else they can deal with later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated with myself about changing Oliver's hallucinations, but even if Tommy's not dead, he's still the most supportive person Oliver could probably think of. (I even considered using Robert instead, but I really don't think Oliver's mind would ever conjure up his father being that supportive, unfortunately...).
> 
> Chapter 29: Asking for Something, should be posted Dec. 14th, and things should slow down a bit from there.


	29. Asking for Something

_December 14, 2013, early afternoon:_

For once, knocking on Oliver’s door is what wakes him: not a nightmare, not his own overactive mind unable to stay still. Not even the sound of footsteps in the hall, which is both a measure of how exhausting the past two weeks have been as well as a measure of how comfortable he’s grown to be in the manor.

That doesn’t mean he’s not instantly alert at the sound. He sits up in bed. “Come in.”

Thea slips the door open, stepping inside the room with an anxious expression on her face. (Oliver revises his earlier thoughts: the fact that he hadn’t woken at Thea’s footsteps is probably also due to the little sound her socked feet make against the carpet.)

“What’s wrong?” he finds himself asking at the look on his sister’s face.

Thea grimaces. “Can we… can we talk?” she asks.

Of course. Always. Thea should know by now that there’s little Oliver will ever be able to deny her. But it’s the fact that she probably wants to talk about the one thing he wants her to stay away from that stays Oliver’s tongue, if only for a moment.

He swings his feet over the side of the bed. “You can always talk to me, Speedy,” he says calmly, sincerely. Especially now that his secret is out in the open, that Thea knows the truth of where he goes when he bails on the latest charity event or doesn’t come home until five in the morning. (Or seven, like he had this morning.)

Thea still looks hesitant ( _she looks young,_ Oliver can’t help but think) but she makes her way over to him, taking a seat on the bed beside him, her feet dangling, socked toes only just touching the floor.

Oliver waits for her to say what she’s come to say, prepared for anything. She’s already thanked him for being the Green Arrow, for stopping their mother, for rescuing Walter, for all the lives he’d saved. He doesn’t think she’s about to take that back. He’s not quite willing to brace himself for rejection. That doesn’t mean she isn’t angry with him, that she isn’t going to ask for some time apart. Or, with how worried she’s been for his own safety, with how she hadn’t wanted Roy to get involved with him for her boyfriend’s safety, she might just ask him to stop.

Oliver would do almost anything for his little sister, but he can’t do that.

“Roy… Roy’s going to ask you to train him,” she says softly.

It’s easy to tell that she’s not entirely pleased with the prospect. But she’d stated it as a fact, which meant that either she was unable to talk Roy out of it, or she’d accepted it. Based on the way her hands are clasped tightly on her lap, the way she isn’t looking him in the eye, Oliver’s inclined to believe the latter. He takes a moment to consider what she’s said. Ultimately, it isn’t surprising. Roy’s been wanting to ask for months. Probably since the first moment Oliver had approached him while wearing the hood.

Thea’s kidnapping, preceded by Tommy’s and followed so closely by his own, has obviously prompted Roy to be proactive. Last week, Oliver would have based his own decision on how it would have affected Roy’s relationship with Thea. This week, he has to consider the Mirakuru now running through Roy’s veins. Roy doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what it could do to him. Oliver might not be the best man for the job, but he’s the only one he trusts to do it properly. (He’s not handing Roy over to ARGUS.)

He doesn’t respond to Thea though. It’s also clear that there’s something else on the tip of her tongue, something else that she’s having trouble saying.

Oliver waits.

After a moment, Thea’s jaw clenches, then releases as she finally looks up at him. “You’re going to train me too,” she says firmly. Like it’s a given that he’ll start training Roy. Like it’s a given that he’ll train her too.

Oliver has to admit, he admires Thea’s conviction. He’s been giving the idea of her helping out “Team Arrow”, as Felicity says, some thought. He’d let Tommy in the basement, after all. Tommy’s run comms for him, looked things up here and there when Felicity or Digg were out. Granted, that was months ago, but how is that any different from letting Thea into the basement?

Hiding his instinctive dislike of the idea, Oliver meets Thea’s gaze calmly. “Train you to fight, or train you to help?” he asks. It’s not a yes, but Oliver’s pretty sure that even Thea understands it’s not a no. Not yet.

Thea looks away again. “Roy… are you going to tell him?”

Oliver considers his answer carefully. Tommy hadn’t much liked it when he’d heard that Oliver’d never planned to tell him the truth. Of course, in the beginning, he’d never planned to tell Thea either, until he had. Roy…

“I wasn’t, when you didn’t know,” Oliver admits, because Thea deserves honesty from him, at the very least, even if she doesn’t need all the details of the violence in his soul. “Roy… He doesn’t care about who’s under the hood. It’s the Green Arrow he supports.”

“You _are_ the Green Arrow,” Thea counters quickly. She hasn’t known the truth long enough to hear him speak of himself in the third person too often, Oliver supposes.

Yes, he is the Green Arrow, but Oliver Queen isn’t. That’s the point. Oliver Queen has nothing to do with the hooded vigilante. There’d been no point in telling Roy the truth.

Oliver acknowledges Thea’s words with a slight nod.

“And now?” she asks, when he doesn’t say anything further.

Now… “I told you to stay away from the Mirakuru,” he says.

Thea’s jaw clenches again, though whether at the reminder of that disastrous conversation or because she thinks he’s avoiding the topic, Oliver can’t say. He looks his sister in the eyes again. “Roy has Mirakuru running through his veins now. It’s going to change him.” If not mentally – though Oliver, who can barely muster up hope in the best of times, holds out none now for that – then physically at the very least.

Thea might not know, exactly, what Mirakuru is, but she knows enough. Knows that it had scared him. The truth is enough to distract her of what she’s asking of him.

(Oliver… Oliver isn’t displeased, with the distraction. That hadn’t been the _only_ reason he’d mentioned the Mirakuru – Thea needs to know – but it’s not an unwelcome side effect.)

“What does that mean? Change him how?”

Oliver hesitates again. Thea’s still learning what it means, to carry his secret.

“I could tell you,” he says slowly. “Or I could tell Roy. Then, when he tells you the truth, you won’t have to keep any secrets from him.” She won’t have to lie and pretend that she doesn’t already know. Of course, such a course of action depends on _Roy_ telling her the truth, but if there’s anyone who can get the information out of him, it’s Thea.

His sister looks away from him again, jaw tight, hands twisting and turning, clasping and unclasping in different configurations in her lap as she thinks things over.

“You’ll train him then?” she asks tightly, turning to him once more.

“Yes.”

“And me?”

It’s a demand more than a question. Oliver should have known better than to believe he could deter his sister for long.

“I’m not going to train you to fight,” he says blatantly, openly, blankly, emotions wiped away, nothing but cold facts in his tone. “But… if you really want to help out…” Thea’s stare is unwavering. There’s fire in her eyes. “Stop by the basement, next time you get a chance.”

Thea nods once, slipping off the bed. “Talk to Roy,” she orders. “This conversation isn’t over.”

Oliver knows that well enough. He watches his sister go with dread in his gut, wondering if he’s made the right choice. But no, Thea’s had enough people lie to her. If this is the way to keep her in his life, then that’s that. He just has to make sure she stays in the basement, like Felicity and Tommy.

* * *

* * *

_December 14, 2013, evening:_

Felicity would honestly, genuinely be hard pressed to say whether or not things have gotten better in the lair the past few months. They’re… well, they’re working well together. They’re splitting tasks the way they used to and grabbing breakfast together after long nights.

But Oliver’s – their – new contingency plans weigh heavily in the back of her mind. She doesn’t want to think about needing to use any of them, doesn’t want to think about what Oliver might have gone through during his time away for him to come up with some of the worst-case scenarios he’s posed to her and John over the last few nights. Doesn’t want to think about losing _him_ , and okay, yeah, she might finally be willing to admit that her feelings for Oliver are not entirely platonic. She doesn’t know what they _are_ yet, just that there’s a lot about Oliver to admire, mind and body.

There are plenty of people who’ve caught his attention over the years – even on the _island,_ apparently, he’d had plenty of women to choose from. (Sara, and now this mysterious Shado he’d been hallucinating.) Felicity has no idea if she’s given him any reason to feel similarly about her.

Besides, it’s… Well, it doesn’t matter what it is. That’s not the point.

The point is, things seem to have settled down, but Felicity doesn’t know where she stands with Oliver anymore, not sure where she _wants_ to stand with Oliver, and because of him she hasn’t been able to stop imagining worst-case scenarios since Barry left and they’d started planning for them. (Because he’s _right_. What would she have chosen to do if Barry hadn’t been an option? It’s a terrible, heart-wrenching scenario to consider, but it’s one she _has_ to consider, because with the way Oliver lives his life she has little doubt that he’ll be in similar danger at some point in the future.)

Regardless, Christmas is coming up for her Christian-oriented friends (even if she’s pretty sure neither Digg nor Oliver have been to a church in a long time) even if Hanukkah ended over a week ago, and Felicity is choosing to focus on the cheer the holiday brings. (Yeah, she doesn’t celebrate Christmas, but she can enjoy some of the _songs_ , can’t she, the colorful lights and the “spirit of giving”?). Oliver had taken the initiative to redecorate the lair as an olive branch back in November, maybe she and Digg need to do something similar, to show that they’re as committed to making things work as he is. (And Moira’s trial starts just after Christmas. Oliver’s going to need a little cheer, even if it doesn’t seem to be affecting him.)

Resolving to talk to John about it later, Felicity decides to add in her own small touch for now. Just a little something to spruce up the basement – Oliver’s thick rug under the cot is nice, but it’s a dull green, not adding any color or real brightness to the room. She brings in a tiny trinket first and sets it next to her monitors one evening, wondering how long it will take the two men to notice it.

She should have known that Oliver would notice the change in his surroundings the second he reached the bottom of the stairs. He notices if she so much as nudges one of his arrows slightly out of place in its rack.

He stops and stares and blinks at it, and Felicity can just see the question on his face even if he’ll never ask it.

“It’s my rubber duck,” she explains.

Behind Oliver, Digg seems equally as befuddled. “That’s not a rubber duck,” he points out.

“No, it’s much cuter than a duck,” Felicity cheerfully agrees. _You are not going to babble. You will not babble about this. There is absolutely no reason to be nervous_. “It’s this thing in computer programming,” she explains, contrary to her own thoughts. “When you’re having trouble with a line of code, you just explain it out loud to a rubber duck – but it doesn’t actually have to be a rubber duck, it’s just the process of saying it out loud –”

“You did mention you were fond of pandas,” Digg cuts her off kindly with a fond grin, before she can somehow slip in an innuendo somewhere, giving the small, plush animal another once-over.

Oliver doesn’t comment on it, moving forward to pick up where they’d left off last night (early that morning), but then, Felicity hadn’t really expected him to say anything directly. He doesn’t ask her to move it, so that’s good enough for her. And since he’s hopefully in a good mood…

“Is Thea coming in tonight?” she asks carefully. “Or Tommy?”

Oliver stiffens but only minutely. “Thea said Roy might give the Arrow a call tonight,” he says in answer. He knows as well as she does that she’d only really tacked on Tommy’s name at the end to soften the question.

“She wants him to know the truth,” Digg says, which, duh. Thea might not have said as much, but even Felicity can tell that’s part of what’s been bothering her lately.

“Are we going to tell him?” she asks frankly, because they’ve all agreed they’re going to be _honest_ with each other going forward, and because Oliver _did_ tell Thea, and Roy’s been working with them for months and…

“No,” Oliver says. But then he turns to face them a bit better. They are _all_ trying, Felicity remembers, and that includes Oliver.

“Not yet, at least,” Oliver says. “The Mirakuru might make him volatile.”

“Are you sure you’re not just using that as an excuse?” Digg asks carefully.

“We can’t tell everyone who wants to get involved with the Arrow,” Oliver shoots back. There’s irritation in his voice, but he doesn’t look angry with them.

Progress? Or is Felicity just blowing his typical reaction out of proportion in her memory? Oliver isn’t really the type to get angry. He is, however, the type to say it’s his way or the highway, and if you don’t like it you can leave. So maybe it’s progress in that regard.

Oliver’s told them a fair bit about the Mirakuru over the past few days, as they’ve worked through contingency plans, but both Felicity and Digg think there’s a lot more he’s not telling them. ( _Like Shado_ , Felicity thinks, for the second time that day and entirely inappropriately. What does it matter if Oliver had loved her – she’d _died_. _Stop it you stupid brain,_ she chides herself, though that does little to quash her inappropriate ill feelings toward a woman she’s never even met.) Still, he’s told them enough that they’re both more than wary about it, even if it’s been a few days and Roy hasn’t gone apeshit yet.

Anyway, they tend to save the team decision discussions for the end of the night anyway.

“No patrol, then?” she asks.

Oliver nods once, moving to roll out the mats.

“I can’t imagine it’ll take Roy long to call,” Digg says plainly, moving to help Oliver.

Oh goody, Felicity gets to watch them spar. (That isn’t sarcasm. Distracting though it might be, she doesn’t think she’ll ever tire of seeing the control they have over their bodies.)

* * *

Shadows line the edges of the alley, hiding the lines between the bricks, the trash that the wind has blown into the corners, the filth from unwashed streets. It’s an unusually cold December night (unusual for northern California, at least) wind whipping between the buildings, funneled through the alleys and streets around them. Clouds overhead hide the moon and stars from view, the light pollution from the city turning them a faint, sickly yellow color instead of their usual pale gray. The streetlights aren’t working either, at least, not the ones immediately nearby, but it’s still just light enough to see by. The noise that can be heard is distant – this is a less well-traveled portion of the city.

In other words, aside from the winter weather, it’s a typical night in the Glades. Roy shoves his hands into the pocket of his red hoodie, too distracted by the reason he’s standing there to lament over the fact that he does not own any gloves (California doesn’t often get cold enough for him to need them).

This is it. This is his one chance.

Technically speaking, that’s not true. But, if the Green Arrow refuses him tonight, Roy’s not sure he’ll ever be able to ask a second time. How could _he_ ever convince the Green Arrow to do anything the hero doesn’t want to do? And how will he react if his hero tells him he’s not good enough to be trained?

On the other hand, how can Roy ever give up? He’s not going to stop wanting to help just because the Green Arrow tells him he’s not good enough. Thea’s been acting weird lately, and even if Roy’s no longer sure it has anything do to with her own kidnapping, he can’t squash the guilt that he hadn’t been enough to protect her. He’d meant to ask the Arrow to train him all the way back then, when he’d gotten his cast off in the beginning of December, but Thea had still been distant and then _he’d_ gotten kidnapped.

The Green Arrow had rescued him too. Roy’s memory of events after the man had crashed into the room are a little fuzzy, and the place was creepy enough that he’s not sure he _wants_ to remember, but he wishes he could have helped, rather than sat helpless, strapped to a chair. Or never have gotten taken in the first place. The Arrow wouldn’t have been.

That’s why Roy’s here tonight. That and a hundred other reasons, a hundred other motivations he’s been suppressing ever since Thea had asked him to stay off the streets. He’s been helping Star City’s hero, and it’s been wonderful, and magnificent, and life changing, and _not enough_. Roy needs to do _more_. He needs to be the kind of person who could have stopped Thea from being kidnapped. He needs to be the kind of person who is (hopefully) working on tracking down Max Stanton’s killer. He needs to be the kind of man who holds scumbags – rich or poor – accountable for their actions.

And… And Roy’s blood is singing. His adrenaline is up, the way it always seems to be when he walks the streets at night these days. That’s not so unusual. There’s always danger in the Glades, light or dark. But it _feels_ different, somehow. _He_ feels different. Has ever since his kidnapping. Has ever since he’d put his hand through his wall in a fit of rage yesterday when he’d heard that his neighbor Robbie (just a kid, only _sixteen_ ) had given in and joined one of the local gangs. (He doesn’t blame _Robbie_ , he blames the Glades. The people who sit by and do nothing. He blames himself, for not getting more involved in his neighbors’ lives.)

Shadows creep over the alley he’s in, and Roy thinks he has enhanced strength. He’s not delusional enough to think he’s _Superman_ , or anything like that, but the Arrow had warned him away from something called Mirakuru, told him to keep his ears open and run the other way if he heard anything about the strange drug that made men stronger than they should have been. And then the creepy man in the mask had shoved a needle into Roy’s neck.

Roy doesn’t even care if this isn’t Mirakuru, if the Arrow doesn’t know what this is. He’s going to ask the Arrow to train him regardless of whether or not maybe the wall was just made of shoddy plaster or if there’s actually Mirakuru in his veins now.

So focused as he is on his own thoughts, on the reason he’s standing in the darkness, on his conviction to not take no for an answer, Roy doesn’t notice immediately when the Arrow actually arrives. His silhouette, as always, blends in with the darkness around him, and his movements are as silent as ever. And when he does lay eyes on the hero, he freezes.

Nerves. He shouldn’t be nervous. He’s spoke with the hero a hundred times by now, worked with him for months, and he _knows_ what he wants. But he’s not ready to hear the hero – his hero – say no.

“What is it?” the Green Arrow growls out, as brisk and as to the point as always through his voice modulator.

“I want you to train me,” Roy blurts out, taking an eager step forward. He calms himself, breathes in deeply. “I know you said you wouldn’t,” he adds on. “But I can’t just sit by anymore. My girlfriend was hurt last month, and I wasn’t able to stop it.” He doesn’t mention that his girlfriend is Thea Queen. It’s not exactly a secret, and the Arrow’s certainly saved the Queen siblings’ lives before, but he doesn’t know how the hero feels about the children of Moira Queen, so he doesn’t bring it up. (He’s not _ashamed,_ and he’ll defend Thea to the Arrow to his last breath, but he’s not about to say anything that might jeopardize his chances if he doesn’t have to.)

The hero’s silhouette is silent for a moment. Wind whips down the alley but the figure opposite Roy doesn’t react. He doesn’t know why he chose such a darkly lit alley. He wishes he could see the Arrow’s expression beneath his hood.

After what feels like an eternity (but is probably only a second or two), the Arrow tilts his head ever so slightly.

“You will do exactly what I say. You will follow my lead. You will not start fights – you will not enter fights – until I say you’re ready. Do you understand?”

Roy’s already nodding before the Green Arrow finishes speaking. It doesn’t matter if he actually thinks he’s going to be able to follow the Arrow’s rules, it doesn’t matter if he thinks waiting until the Arrow says he’s ready will try his patience. Nothing else matters besides the fact that the hero in front of him said _yes_.

“When do we start?” Roy asks, eager and ready, body thrumming with a different sort of energy than only a few minutes ago. He wants to hit something. Wants to _prove_ himself to this man. Wants to learn from the best, and never let anything happen to Thea ever again.

“Right now,” the Arrow responds. He charges at Roy.

* * *

* * *

_December 15, 2013, afternoon:_

Roy doesn’t answer at Thea’s first knock, or even her second, but the door opens shortly after her third. Thea’d spent all night wondering what Oliver training him had ended up entailing, wondering if he’d gotten hurt.

When she’d first discovered that her brother was the Green Arrow she’d been ecstatic and awed and so, so proud. He’d saved the city! He’d stood up to their mother and stopped her from committing _mass murder_. He’d saved so many lives. He’d saved Roy’s life, her life, Sin’s life, the life of every resident of the Glades, probably.

She’s admired the Green Arrow for a long time now, and she’s wanted to do something to help her people – to prove that she isn’t her mother’s daughter – for just about as long. Learning that it was – is – _Oliver_ under the hood… It’d been an amazing feeling, to understand her brother better and get to thank the man who’d saved the city.

But she’s been wary of the Green Arrow for longer than she’s admired him, it had just taken seeing Oliver visibly injured for her to remember that. Before that, she’d been too busy thinking about what, exactly, Oliver is capable of. About what happened to him on the island and how he learned how to use a bow and arrow and how he got the horrible, terrible scars. About what persuaded him to put on a green hood and jump off rooftops.

About how he knew what their mother was planning, and how he had lived with her day in and day out – and how easily he’s forgiven her – despite that knowledge. About helping him. About actually having a chance to work with the vigilante, now that she knows who he is. About Oliver’s injuries. About trying to get him to tell her about his injuries, and how bad they actually are. About the fact that even though she knows the truth he still won’t talk to her. About…

About a lot of things really. But not much about Roy. Not much about the fact that Roy’s been working with the Green Arrow since July, feeding him information about what happens in the Glades. Her brother is the Green Arrow, and her boyfriend works with the Green Arrow. Thea can’t believe she hadn’t really made the connection before now. Hasn’t thought about what that means.

Now that she knows Oliver is the Green Arrow, she trusts the Green Arrow more than she ever could have before. Working with the Green Arrow’s dangerous, but the Green Arrow’s _Oliver_. Surely, now that she knows the truth, he can find ways to help that are less dangerous for her and Roy both. And, surely, they can find ways to help that make it less dangerous for her brother, so that she never has to see him try and hide his injuries from her ever again. She wants to help him, that hasn’t changed even with the realization that sometimes things can go wrong, but she wants to do it with Roy by her side. (And even Sin too. It doesn’t feel right to leave her out of this, not after all their talk about making a difference lately, and Thea feels bad for neglecting her these past few weeks. She’s just had a lot on her mind.)

(A tiny part of her wonders, after seeing Oliver limp through the door and knowing that he’s still hiding how serious everything was from her, about this Mirakuru that he’ll barely talk about, if she really wants to risk losing her brother and her boyfriend that way. The rest of her – the majority of her brain, her heart, her soul – cannot stop feeling such overwhelming faith in Oliver and in all that he’s accomplished so far. In the fact that he saw through their mother when she didn’t. Roy knowing his secret might put him in more danger, but it will also, in some ways, keep him safer. She believes that.)

It's a complete 180-degree shift from how she’d been thinking before, wanting to warn Roy away from getting too involved with the Green Arrow. She knows that. She doesn’t care. The truth is, she doesn’t even think the shift happened when Oliver told her the truth. She thinks maybe her brain started down that track when the Green Arrow saved Tommy’s life at Laurel’s bequest (though she knows now, looking back, that he would have done it anyway, had already been working on it). Or maybe it had been when the Green Arrow had saved her and Roy and Sin in that alley. Or maybe it was just when she’d decided she wanted to do _something_ , to stop being that helpless little girl who always seems to lose what matters to her the most.

Except it’s Oliver’s secret. She can’t tell Roy, no matter how much she wants to.

And yet her first reaction upon hearing that Roy was going to ask the Green Arrow to train him was to think ‘ _why not? I’ll ask Oliver. And if he says yes there’s no reason to keep me out of it either.’_ It had only been her subsequent surprise at the thought that had kept her from voicing it aloud. She can trust Oliver to keep Roy out of danger while training him, can’t she? But can the Green Arrow do it if Roy doesn’t know he is Oliver?

It’s so _confusing_! Thea knows, and Roy doesn’t, and she wants Roy to know but she doesn’t think Oliver does.

Roy wants to help and Thea wants to help and the Green Arrow will let Roy but Oliver won’t let Thea.

The Green Arrow’s dangerous but Oliver isn’t.

What the Green Arrow does _is_ dangerous but she trusts Oliver. He’s saved the city. In more ways than one.

She’s almost lost Oliver more than once since he’d come home. She can’t lose Roy. (But she can’t lose Oliver either.)

Thea doesn’t know what to do and the problem is that that only person she can talk to about her problems is Oliver himself. She wants to talk to Roy, she wants so badly to be able to talk to him, but she never will. For Oliver. And lately, she can’t stop thinking about Oliver’s injuries – the ones he’s probably managed to hide and the ones he hasn’t. Will that be Roy, now that Oliver’s training him? Is it Roy already?

But no. Roy looks exhausted and hesitant, but not injured.

“I’m not…” he starts to say.

“How’d it go?” Thea interrupts, pushing her way into his small house.

Roy doesn’t answer for a moment, shutting the door behind her. She feels bad, a bit, about butting in and demanding things from him while he’s so clearly exhausted, but not bad enough to stop. Roy _had_ to have known she’d be coming to check on him. And Oliver had said he would fill her boyfriend in about the Mirakuru, so Thea can finally learn what’s going on there. (What’s in _Roy_ now, because that’s what Roy had been injected with, and truthfully her penetrating gaze isn’t just scanning Roy for injuries, she’s looking for some sort of effects of the drug too. What _is_ Mirakuru? What will it do to her boyfriend?)

“I… good,” he finally says. “I think it went good.”

“Really?” Thea can’t help but ask. “Because from the look on your face it was anything but.”

Roy turns away, and that’s not just exhaustion or reluctance on his face, that’s _shame_.

“Roy?” Thea asks, properly worried now. “What is it? What did –” _What did he do?_ she’d been about to ask, before she’d remembered that the Green Arrow is her brother, not just some faceless, violent stranger. But Roy doesn’t know that. “What happened?” she asks, softer, when he doesn’t answer immediately.

Roy looks down at his hand. “I… I need you to stay away from me, Thea.”

She bristles. “What? Did, did he tell you that?” Oliver wouldn’t, would he? ( _He doesn’t want you involved in this, remember_ , she can’t help but think. But he’d also told her to drop in on Verdant’s basement whenever, that he’d tell Roy the truth so that she wouldn’t have to lie to him.)

Roy quickly shakes his head. “No, no he…” but he can’t seem to be able to say whatever’s on his mind.

It has to be this mysterious Mirakuru. Thea can’t picture any other interaction between Roy and the hero he worships – between Roy and her brother – ending like this. Getting to train with the Green Arrow wouldn’t put Roy in this kind of mood.

In fits and hesitation, with much cajoling, and several times with her insisting that she doesn’t care what’s going on, she’s not going anywhere, Thea gets Roy to tell her the truth.

Mirakuru is the drug he was injected by. It enhances a person’s strength, but it also dims their self-control. The Green Arrow’d proven that last night by provoking Roy into a rage – not much, just enough for Roy’s punch – aimed at the hero but which hit the wall – to shatter solid concrete. His knuckles are red, but otherwise there’s no sign of what he’d done.

“I almost, I almost…” Roy still is having trouble talking, torn it seems between asking Thea to leave (as if he could ever hurt her) and wanting her to stay.

Thea can’t help but swallow, knowing that wall could have been her brother’s head. What had he been _thinking_? Last month, her concern would have only been for Roy, not some unknown vigilante in a hood, but now she finds herself split two ways. But she _has_ to trust that Oliver knows what he’s doing – she _has_ to, otherwise she can’t stand the thought of him putting his life on the line every night.

“But you didn’t,” she says to Roy, knowing how hard this must be for him, to realize he’d almost killed the man he’s looked up to for months, the man who’s given him a purpose.

Finally, finally, Roy meets her gaze. “I asked him to _train_ me,” he says, not for the first time, and there’s a touch of horror in his tone. “What if, what if…”

Thea takes his hand, ignoring the way he stiffens and freezes in her grip. “He’s seen this before, you said it yourself. He knows what he’s doing.” He _has_ to. Thea won’t accept any other alternative. “C’mon, I thought you said this guy was good. You think he can’t handle it?”

Roy stiffens again, this time in indignation, just as Thea’d hoped he would. He doesn’t stand slights against the Green Arrow well, but even in his mood it only takes him a second to see the grin on Thea’s face and realize she’d been intentionally prodding him. The barest hint of a grin crosses his own face, but neither of them get much time to dwell on it as a knock on the door interrupts them.

“I’ve got it,” Thea offers, but Roy shoos her back into his seat. She doesn’t protest too much, because it’s not just chivalry, she knows. Not all of Roy’s friends and acquaintances from the Glades are people he wants her to ever meet.

It’s just Sin though, and they congregate in the kitchen instead of Roy’s bedroom, spread out over Roy’s three rickety chairs.  Sin isn’t much of one for small talk, and neither is Thea when she can avoid it, so after a few greetings and some words spent checking up on each other, Thea’s glad when Sin gets right to the point of her impromptu visit.

“Look, I get that you guys have a lot going on,” she says frankly, actually only aware of about half of the chaos in their lives right now. “But I thought we agreed that we were going to help the Glades.”

Roy and Thea exchange unhappy glances at her words.

“We will,” Roy promises. “I just…” he looks over at Thea again. “I… I was, injected, with something. Mirakuru. When they grabbed me the other night. Green Arrow, he’s, he’s helping me with it, but…”

Just like Green Arrow is Oliver’s secret, Thea figures this is Roy’s. Yeah, she’d forced it out of him, but if he doesn’t want to tell Sin yet, she won’t force him. Not until he’s come to terms with what’s happening to him.

Sin’s gaze moves to her next, expectant.

“We will,” Thea finds herself repeating. “There’s just, uh, there’s a lot going on right now. Do you, do you want to talk about, um, about what we had planned?” Oliver. The kidnappers. The Mirakuru. Roy. Her mom’s _trial,_ at the end of the month. Even _finals_ for her online classes, next week, and she can’t believe she hasn’t just skipped out on those entirely. She hasn’t forgotten about Max, about what had started all this – about Sin and Roy charging off half-cocked without her – but everything else, all the plans they’ve been working on… They’ve taken a backseat to everything else going on with her life.

Sin shrugs, looking like she doesn’t care. Thea’s almost positive it’s an act, but she doesn’t have the energy to argue.

“Nah, just wanted to check in,” Sin says. “Like I said, I know you guys have a lot going on.” She stands. “Anyway, I’ve got some stuff going on too. I’ll see you guys later.”

“Sin…” Thea says, half-heartedly.

Sin just waves her weak protests aside and sees herself out.

Part of Thea wants to go after her, but Roy’s still having a minor freak out, and as he’s the one who was just injected with a life-altering drug, Thea’s not going anywhere.

She takes his hand again.

* * *

* * *

_December 17, 2013, early morning hours:_

Life stays busy, even with Cyrus Gold locked behind bars. Oliver keeps his activity in the field light for a few days, taking no more than three hours or so each night for some easy patrols before he returns to the basement, or shifts into training Roy (sometimes before the night starts, sometimes in the early hours of the morning). Even during the day he’s actually managing to take the time to rest and heal, keeping up to date on Queen Consolidated but letting the COO handle things for a few days with a few excuses about the flu. (The board doesn’t even question it – recovering from almost dying is no cakewalk, and Oliver knows he hadn’t looked great those first few days, especially after rescuing Roy.) Laurel remains the only person in Oliver’s life outside of it all, unaware of what’s going on, continuing her research into Dr. Anderson. Everyone else…

Well, they’re right in the thick of things with Oliver, in one way or another.

“Where do I start?” Thea asks boldly, when she comes downstairs as Verdant closes. Felicity looks up from her computers, Digg from the screens he’s been studying. Oliver’s been watching her since she’d closed the door behind her at the top of the stairs.

He’s not patrolling again tonight, so they could show her the comms system, the police radio system, the way Felicity sorts 911 calls or social media, but he supposes that can wait until it’s needed. Oliver wants to keep his sister as far away from the field as he can, for as long as he can. Maybe, he hopes, a stupidly optimistic thought, she’ll get bored by the tedious research that goes into being a vigilante.

Right now, Felicity is focusing on the fake Lists. The chaos of Cyrus Gold’s arrest has been contained by the SCPD and the List is still in the public eye instead. Fake lists continue to appear, some signed, some not. A few more prominent corrupt businessmen have been the target of protests over the weeks, and there’s even been a boycott or two of certain local businesses. Interest in the real List has started to wane – how will anyone know its authenticity, compared to the fakes? – and people are starting to question whether they should be relying on a list made by Malcolm Merlyn anyway. It seems that the creation of the fake lists has prompted people to take a closer look at who they’re giving their money to.

Felicity’s still noting the fake lists that appear, because if violence erupts due to one in particular Oliver wants to know who to target, but she’s also still keeping tabs on the man who started it all, Nathanial Urbina. He’s embraced his exposed Twitter handle, @takebackStarCity, posting information about the men and women on his own list – nothing gained illegally though, now that his name’s attached, just good research, just calls to action. Felicity’s also keeping an eye on his new Twitter handle, @heroesofSC. Urbina seems to have learned from Oliver’s attempt to teach him a lesson – more than Oliver had expected him to. The new handle seems to be so far dedicated to Tweeting information about the smaller scale heroes in Star City, everyday people doing good. Urbina, it seems, genuinely cares – he hadn’t made his initial post solely for views. (Likes? Follows? Retweets? Oliver’s still not quite up to date on all forms of social media.)

Oliver considers sending Thea her way, but Felicity’s deep in code, and Thea knows nothing about computer science.

Digg, on the other hand, is still shadowing Tommy during the days, and he’s the one focusing most of his attention on their kidnappers during the nights. There haven’t been many leads yet, but at least the high-profile kidnapping has more or less faded from the public eye. (Tommy’s put in a bid for a building for his clinic, not too far from Verdant actually.) Right now, Digg’s digging through every scrap of information Felicity’s been able to dredge up about their kidnappers’ lives since the miniquake, trying to find _some_ connection, some hint of who had put them up to it.

Thea could help with that, he supposes – it’s just reading background files – but he doesn’t want to force her to stare at the faces of the men who’d kidnapped her for the next few hours.

Oliver, meanwhile, is looking into the Mirakuru. The company that had funded the blood drive, the man in the skull mask, Cyrus Gold… Anything he can get his hands on. Not one of the men he’d put arrows the night he’d rescued Roy had ever shown up at any hospital, so that’s a dead end there, but he’s got other things to go off of. The man in the skull mask had said the Mirakuru had been a gift, which means there’s _still_ someone up higher in the chain. And whether it’s the man behind the mask or not, someone in the cult has to have the scientific and medical background to create the serum. Not much to go on, but it’s something.

He’s not about to get Thea involved with the Mirakuru though, not with everything that’s going on with Roy, not after he’d told her so pointedly to stay away from it all. (Despite all their issues, despite Felicity and Digg’s (mostly Felicity’s) displeasure with their new contingency plans, despite Queen Consolidated still not being happy with him, despite his mother’s upcoming trial, most of the tension in Oliver is internal. He doesn’t know what to do about Roy. The kid’s trying his hardest to keep it together, to follow along to every movement of Oliver’s training, but he’s not sure how long Roy will continue to do so. He can hope that what happened to Slade was an anomaly, but he knows he has to prepare for the day when Roy turns on him.)

“How much do you know about the List?”

“The List?” Thea asks. “That thing that’s been all over the news, the one that…”

That their father and Malcolm Merlyn had written together. Oliver nods, and fills Thea in on everything the news hasn’t said. Well, not everything. Just the relevant bits. As Thea looks down at the small notebook now in her hands, Oliver knows it’s unlikely he’ll ever be able to tell her how their father died. She doesn’t… she doesn’t need that image in her mind.

“What do you want me to do?” she finally asks, looking up. “I mean, I thought you wanted me to stay out of the, uh, the field?”

“I don’t need you to go after them,” Oliver clarifies. That is _not_ happening. “But we have audio files, for some of them. You can listen to them, see if there’s anything we can send to the police, or the news if it’s not enough for a warrant.”

“Audio files?” Thea asks with a frown. “You mean you bugged them? Isn’t that illegal?”

Oliver doesn’t really think she’s reluctant, just asking for clarification, but he takes the opening regardless. “If you don’t want to be a part of this –”

“No. I do. Where are the files?”

Well, it was worth a try. Oliver gets her set up at the computer, and for the next few hours there are four of them working in the basement instead of three.

* * *

Quite honestly, everything with Thea is going so much better than Oliver had hoped for, once he’d heard the conviction in her voice. He can see her getting impatient with the audio files, probably hoping for something that feels more like she’s making a difference, but she doesn’t once complain. Instead she only glances up a few times, sees the three of them still hard at work, and doubles down again. She wants to do more, he knows, and boring research isn’t enough to get her to leave, but she’s safe, down here in the basement, and she’s not asking for more just yet.

Granted, Oliver had given up a little more than he’d wanted to, and he knows she’s still processing everything she’s learned about the Green Arrow, and he knows she’s distracted by Moira’s upcoming trial, but… But he can live with their decision. She’ll help, when she wants to, but only in the foundry basement, only after she’s been trained by Felicity and Digg, only where Oliver can keep her safe and out of harm’s way. She wants him to tell Roy, of course, and even Felicity and Digg have considered it, but Oliver’s managed to put off that discussion too, for the time being.

For now, for the night, Oliver watches her work in between his own task until Tommy’s appearance at the top of the stairs interrupts his thought process. Five people in the basement now, he can’t help but think as Tommy joins them. He’s pretty sure that’s a record.  

Tommy… Lately, Tommy’s seemed remarkably okay with Oliver’s activities. He’s staying out of things, more or less, but whenever Oliver says something (something seemingly benign to anyone who doesn’t know the truth, but which gives a hint of his vigilante status to those who do know) Tommy takes the news calmly. Oliver can’t help but think of the strength of conviction in hallucination-Tommy’s voice every time he sees his best friend, but nothing he sees in person causes him to doubt that Tommy would actually agree with the fake version of him Oliver’s mind had created in the heat of battle.

Tommy exchanges greetings with the others, even ribbing Thea gently a bit, before he steps up to Oliver’s side.

“Hey, can I talk to you real quick?” he asks quietly. “Alone?”

Oliver leads Tommy into the furthest corner. Digg and Felicity and Thea notice, because they’d have to be blind not to, but even though Felicity frowns at the sight, the three of them keep working.

“The training’s not just for Thea,” Oliver says, before Tommy can say anything. “I know you said you don’t want to get too involved, and I’m not asking you to, but if you ever want to learn more…”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Tommy says, then immediately grimaces. “Sort of. Not really. I mean, it’s related, but…”

Oliver waits.

“Look, Digg and Felicity, they’ve been working with you for a while. I get it. I heard the stories of how they got involved. It was bring them in or someone would probably die.” From the way Tommy’s eyes glance up and down Oliver’s body, Tommy knows perfectly well that one of those dead bodies would have been Oliver’s. “And you told me when my dad, when Malcolm –” Tommy swallows and ignores his own words. “And Thea, I get that too. You guys were in danger. But…”

Oliver waits, but Tommy’s hesitation this time lingers a bit longer.

“But what?” he prompts.

“If Thea knows, why can’t Laurel?” Tommy asks, then barrels over Oliver’s immediate response as he keeps talking. “She’s been involved from the beginning. She’s been helping since the beginning. There’s no reason to keep her in the dark anymore.”

There are a lot of reasons, actually. Not the least of which is that Thea’s reaction had gone remarkably well – _miraculously_ , almost. Oliver can’t count on that again. Tommy had hated him, in the beginning. Oliver doesn’t understand why he still doesn’t. (Villain or not, Oliver had killed Tommy’s father. He’s not sure how his friend continues to look past that.) Laurel…

Yes, Laurel’s been involved with the Green Arrow – the Arrow, the Hood, the Vigilante – since the beginning. Yes, she still works with him. But Oliver thinks he knows Laurel’s feelings about his alter ego better than Tommy does. Laurel respects the Green Arrow’s end goal. She’s a fan of the impact he’s had on the Glades, of the number of rich scum he’s taken down a peg, of the lives he’s saved.

She doesn’t care for his methods. She doesn’t think much of who the Green Arrow is as a man. She’s seen him in action – in the thick of things – more than anyone who knows the truth, except perhaps Digg. She’ll trust the Green Arrow to go after the bad guys, but she doesn’t trust him, not really. To her, he’s just a loaded gun who happens to be pointed in the right direction, and she has a healthy wariness of how easily she thinks his aim might change.

She’s not wrong. Oliver uses his hood to give voice to his monster’s needs. And Laurel’s seen him almost loose it, way back after he’d first gotten home, when rescuing her from that prison had brought up bad memories. He’d barely held himself back rescuing Tommy, rescuing Thea. Even rescuing Roy, he’d shown little mercy.

Laurel, Oliver figures, sees the monster better than anyone else.

He doesn’t want her to see that monster in Oliver Queen’s eyes as well. (She’s still upset with him, he knows, for the distance he’d kept between him and Tommy after Tommy’s kidnapping. What would she think of him if she knew he’d killed Tommy’s father?)

That’s the real crux of why he doesn’t want to tell her the truth. He can come up with a hundred other reasons – it _does_ keep her safer, and it would be easier to keep his promise to Sara, and he’d never meant to come home and involve everyone he loved in his crusade – but his true motive is selfish.

It’s selfish, and wrong, and unfair, to Laurel and to Tommy.

Tommy’s right. He’d told Thea. Why not Laurel?

“I’m not… I know this is a big deal,” Tommy speaks before Oliver can respond. “I know it’s asking a lot – I know…” He swallows again, looking unhappy. “I know you never even planned to tell me the truth. But… You told Thea. I’m not, I’m not asking you to go and tell her tonight, alright? There’s Christmas, and your mom, and… I just… I just want you to think about it.”

Tommy’s not pushing. After everything Oliver’s put him through, after all the ups and downs of their relationship, Tommy seems to have found his equilibrium. He hasn’t pushed Oliver in a while. Hasn’t argued. Hasn’t shown anything but support, lately. And now he’s asking Oliver for something, and he’s giving Oliver time to think about it.

Oliver’s half temped to ask, _“And if I say no?”_ just to see Tommy’s reaction, just to hear how his best friend might respond. But even though his instinctual answer _is_ no, he doesn’t say it. Because Tommy’s right. Because Laurel deserves to know. Because he knows he’s being selfish.

He’s just not sure if those three factors are enough to risk revealing his secret to her.

“I’ll consider it,” he agrees, aware there’s a gruffness to his tone. (Tommy’s being so accommodating, and still Oliver can’t hold back his own emotions.)

Tommy raises a hand. “May I?”

(Something in Oliver’s heart flutters painfully. Something small and surprised and not entirely unpleasant. This is not the first time Tommy has asked for permission to touch him first. He’s not sure he understands it – he doesn’t _need_ it, not really – but… But he hasn’t asked Tommy to stop. Hasn’t told him it’s unnecessary.)

Oliver nods once and Tommy claps him on the shoulder with a small grin.

“Thanks man. I know it’s asking a lot,” he repeats. “Take your time. Just not too much time, y’know?”

Oliver manages a grin in response, nodding again, this time softer, in agreement. He wants to say thank you in return, but he can’t even articulate what for in his own mind, so he says nothing, just bids Tommy farewell and watches him leave.

“What was that all about?” Digg asks as Oliver wanders back to his partners, his sister. (Thea’s still got her headphones on though; she’s not listening.)

“He wants to tell Laurel the truth,” Oliver admits. It’s not exactly a secret, he figures, just something that… The gears in Oliver’s brain click into place. Tommy hadn’t asked for privacy for himself. He’d known what he’d wanted to ask for. He’d asked for privacy for Oliver, so that Oliver could manage his own reaction. (So that Oliver, potentially, could have said no, without having to justify his decision to Digg and Felicity.)

Tommy’d been giving him the opportunity to keep his request a secret, if Oliver had wanted to. He doesn’t – he and Digg and Felicity are working on no secrets between the three of them, best they can without digging too much into Oliver’s past – but Tommy’d given him the chance anyway. That means something too.

“Are we going to?” Felicity asks.

Oliver can say no. This is his team. His crusade. His mission. And Laurel is his friend, not Digg’s or Felicity’s. But… “I told him we’d think about it,” he replies.

He’s one-hundred percent certain that both of his partners catch his emphasis on _we_.

* * *

* * *

_December 17, 2013, evening:_

A week after Barry Allen leaves Star City, a package arrives, from him, to Oliver. Well, he sent it to Felicity’s home address, and Oliver appreciates that, appreciates the attempt at secrecy, but it’s for the Arrow regardless.

“Barry sent something for you,” she says softly, holding out a small box when he gets to the basement that night.

Oliver doesn’t have a clue what sort of gift Barry Allen would get for him. The man had clearly been enamored with the prospect of meeting a vigilante, Oliver or not – there are a hundred different things that could be in the box, some trinket that Allen thinks expresses his gratitude.

“I didn’t open it,” Felicity says. “It came in a larger box, with a note.” She hands him the note, just a short thing on a small scrap of paper. _For Oliver._

Oliver. Not Green Arrow. An indication of whatever’s in the box, or just another person who can’t see the distinction between Oliver’s two selves?

He takes the box gingerly, but while there’s no way to guarantee it’s from Allen, he doesn’t truly believe there’s any danger in opening it. The lid slips off easily. For a moment, Oliver can only stare.

Allen – Barry – had been excitable and enthusiastic and… and more complicated, really, than Oliver had been giving him credit for. Not just a fanboy. A dedicated scientist who’d truly appreciated the lives that Oliver has saved. It hadn’t just been obsession that had driven his interactions with Oliver, not just admiration, but genuine respect. And truthfully, Oliver respects that Barry had stood up to him. That he’d helped even in the face of Oliver’s anger. That he’s _still_ helping, halfway around the country in Central City.

“What is it?” Digg asks from off to the side.

In answer, Oliver takes the small mask out of the box. It’s a deep green, the same color as the leather of his suit. It’s flexible too, with a strap that seems as though it would be tight enough to keep the mask on his face. This isn’t just…

Barry…

Oliver takes a deep breath. This is… it’s approval. It’s recognition. This is a stranger from another city saying _I know you’re a hero; I want to help you be the best you can be_.

Barry made him a mask, without being asked, without being prompted. This isn’t a thank you, Oliver knows. Or, it is, but it’s so much more than that too.

It shouldn’t matter, as much as it does. He still doesn’t know Allen. But this, he thinks, tells him all he needs to know about the other man.

_You’re not a hero_ , he can still hear Slade saying, even if his hallucinations are gone. _Put down your bow,_ Shado echoes.

_Keep going_ , Barry seems to say in contrast. _You’re doing the right thing._

“Try it on,” Felicity says, a little breathless.

Oliver doesn’t slip it over his head just yet. He knows what she means. He grabs the suit first, and moves to change. This time, he leaves the grease paint on its shelf.

“How do I look?” he asks, as he emerges back into the basement. He doesn’t need to ask. He _shouldn’t_ need to ask. It doesn’t matter what he looks like. He asks anyway.

“Like a hero,” Felicity says.

_You’re not a hero, kid_ , Slade’s voice echoes in his mind again, and maybe he still agrees with that. Maybe he still thinks there’s a darkness inside him that’ll never go away.

But Barry thinks he’s a hero. Felicity thinks he looks the part. Roy looks up to him. Thea thanked him. Tommy has done nothing but show his support for him, these past few weeks. Even Lance has circumvented his normal way of doing things in deference to the Green Arrow.

Maybe the Green Arrow isn’t the right way to hide Oliver’s monster anymore. Maybe that’s not the right name for this thing he becomes, under Yao Fei’s hood. The darkness inside him will never truly be gone, but he can do better, ask for more from himself. Become the hero that everyone else seems to think he already is. It might take him years, but for the first time, Oliver thinks he can get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Chapter 30: Hit Where it Hurts, should be posted in about a week, on Dec. 20th, and that chapter will take us into early January.


	30. Hit Where it Hurts

_December 20, 2013, morning:_

The call comes in at ten in the morning, while Quentin’s still sleeping off last night’s shift. The vibration of the phone is enough to wake him, but not quickly enough for him to answer it on time. It can’t be that important anyway, he reasons, grumbling and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s the go-to guy for one thing and one thing only these days: Green Arrow. And the Green Arrow doesn’t operate at ten in the morning, which means that Quentin sure as Hell doesn’t have to either.

The phone starts ringing again. So much for listening to the voicemail.

“Lance,” Quentin says gruffly, answering. They _know_ what his hours are, would it kill them to go to someone else with their problems for once?

He’s not thinking that anymore when the call’s over. For this kind of thing, they could call him at any hour of any day. Hell, if it’d happened on Christmas, Quentin wouldn’t even have been mad about the notice.

Cyrus Gold bent the bars on his jail cell, killed one guard, seriously wounded another, and broke free of the SCPD holding area, half an hour before Quentin had been called. He’d _told_ them to take precautions – everyone had seen what he’d done to the _multiple_ SWAT teams that had been used to subdue one man. Whatever those folks down in holding had managed to wrestle up hadn’t been enough.

Quentin’s never been one to dally going to work, but he makes it to the station in record time that morning. The captain is waiting for him, and half the taskforce’s already there.

“No offense, Captain,” Quentin can’t help but ask, when he’s sequestered in the man’s office, just the two of them. “But why are you bringing us in on this? Arrow’s wiped his hands with it, turned it over to us.”

Captain Pike is scowling. “He knew about this guy first – I don’t care how you do it, I don’t want to know, but you are going to track him down and get him to tell you everything he knows about Gold.”

Quentin’s been working with the Arrow too long to give away his discomfort. “If I knew how to find the Arrow –”

“Skip the BS, Quentin. Like I said, I don’t need to know details. He knows how to get in touch with you somehow, even if he’s just following you around on rooftops like some murderous puppy. You can’t find him, fine – but the next time he finds you, I don’t care what you have to promise him, just get him to tell you the truth.”

Frank’s not a huge fan of the Green Arrow, Quentin knows. He’s one of those cops who’d still arrest him on sight, if he saw him (if he still went out in the field, if the Arrow would stand still long enough). If he’s asking for the Arrow’s help, through Quentin or not, then he’s taking this thing seriously. Good. Maybe next time, they won’t let Gold get away.

“And the taskforce?” he asks.

“Gold’s a cop killer,” Frank explains, “but we don’t need the city panicking about a regular guy with the strength of Superman. Your guys are used to keeping cases quiet, and officially, the Arrow was the one who brought Gold to our attention anyway. Think your guys can handle it?”

Quentin doesn’t think Gold has the strength of _Superman_ (dear God, he hopes not – he’s seen what that man – alien – can do on TV) but he gets Frank’s point. They’re keeping the media out of this, cop killer or not. He can’t say he disagrees with the choice. The less the vultures know the better.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, my guys can handle it.” They’re not without their faults – some of them more than others – but Gold’s a _cop killer_. They’ll bring him in. Especially with the Green Arrow on their side.

After all the help Quentin’s given him this past month, the Arrow owes him. Quentin intends to make him pay up.

* * *

* * *

_December 22, 2013, night:_

“What’s the plan, for the rest of the month?” John can’t help but ask. Christmas is right around the corner but with the Mirakuru, on top of everything else, Oliver’s hasn’t even mentioned taking days off. John knows how much Christmas means to Oliver, but with his mother still in jail, for the time being, he’s not sure how much the man feels like celebrating.

Regardless, they’ve been working hard since December began, excepting the brief pause Oliver had taken on account of his injuries, and they’ve got a hundred different things going on. They could use a break. All of them.

Oliver looks over at him, then looks over to Felicity. “Gold needs to be found,” he says severely, which isn’t an answer in the slightest.

“Lance’s entire taskforce is on it,” John reminds him. “And I’m not saying we give up. I’m just saying, there’s Christmas, and then your mom’s trial, and…” And the injuries, on top of being CEO during the day and vigilante during the night, are starting to take their toll on Oliver. They don’t have nights where they go home early anymore, not while making room for Roy’s training, and Thea’s training, and looking for their kidnappers, and trying to solve the mystery of the Mirakuru. The Bertinelli crime family has taken a backseat entirely, and even if they’re still keeping an eye on the way the city is treating the fake lists, they haven’t targeted any actual Listers in weeks.

“I can come in on Christmas, Christmas Eve,” Felicity suggests. “Finish up some of these algorithms, do some of the computer work.”

That hadn’t been what John had had in mind.

“That’s not –”

“It’s not _my_ holiday,” Felicity cuts him off, amused exasperation in her tone. “I already celebrated Hanukah, remember? I’m not planning to overwork myself, but Queen Consolidated is giving us Monday, Tuesday, _and_ Wednesday off, so I’ve got plenty of free time.”

John looks over to see what Oliver thinks about that and finds a clear reluctance and obvious indecision on Oliver’s face. “Look,” he says. “Your sister’s going to need you, for this trial. Spend some time with your family over the holidays.” He’s not afraid to take advantage of Oliver’s need to help people, if that’s what it’ll take for his friend to take a break.

There’s not much going on for his family, the Diggle’s at least, but after all they’ve been seeing each other with lately between ARGUS and the Arrow, Lyla’s invited him to a quiet dinner Christmas Eve (nothing formal, not a _date_ , just a family tradition she has trouble following through with on her own, given that the rest of her family lives near DC). And on Christmas itself, nevermind that he’s not related to them, Carly’s family has invited him for dinner. It might be awkward, but for AJ’s sake, John intends to put in an appearance for at least a little while.

Oliver nods. “Fine,” he says. “But I’ve got tomorrow off too. We can spend the day here, then take two days off for the holidays.”

“Except for me,” Felicity chimes in. She really doesn’t seem bothered by it, but then, why would she be doing anything on Christmas anyway? John had never really given it much thought before, but it’s just another day to her.

“And afterward?” he asks for clarification.

“The trial’s during the day,” Oliver says plainly. “It shouldn’t interfere. Neither of you have to be here –”

That wasn’t what he’d meant either, but two days off is better than nothing.

“We’ll be here,” John says, looking over at Felicity to see her nodding along with his words. They’re in this, all three of them. No matter what Oliver might think.

And Oliver’s right, even with the holiday’s coming up, they really do need to catch Cyrus Gold.

* * *

* * *

_December 30, 2013, evening:_

CNRI, technically speaking, closes at five. Most of the time, it’s even true. But Laurel’s worked late enough times – either as a group or by herself – that she’s well used to the sight of dark offices around her as she soldiers on. She’s pretty sure half the lawyers at CNRI know the alarm codes to lock the door if they’re the last ones out of the building, if not three-fourths of them.

Technically speaking, Laurel doesn’t even need to be working late tonight. She’s finished up the paperwork for her most recent case – it ended in a settlement, but luckily one that Laurel feels was in her client’s favor – and she hasn’t started in on anything new, and even law firms try to take time off around the holidays.

Tonight though, she’s working on something old. Well, her and Jo.

“How about that?” Jo asks her, finality in her tone as she leans back in her seat, finished for now. Anderson hasn’t returned their calls since their first meeting with him, so they haven’t gotten another face to face, but that doesn’t mean they’re giving up.

Laurel studies the words Jo had just finished typing up. “Looks good to me.”

“Think he’ll actually reply to this?”

Laurel’s optimistic. They’ve done a lot of digging the past month, and they’ve managed to find three other former patients – or relatives of former patients – of Anderson’s that also feel as though they were treated incorrectly, and against their wishes. Only one other death, and the flimsy evidence still isn’t nearly enough to take it to court, but it’s been enough to keep their bosses at CNRI off their backs and motivate them to keep going. Their email to Anderson isn’t overtly antagonistic – they don’t want him to consider them to be too much of a threat; the kind of powerful people on the List have the means to ruin lives, or even end them – but it’s bordering on it. It’s also just open-ended enough to make Anderson think they’re going to give him an out. (They need him to reply, because he isn’t returning any of their calls.)

She rereads through the text one last time. There’s just enough of a suggestion at the end to make them seem not entirely competent. Hardworking and dedicated, from the time they’ve put into it, there’s no getting around that, but not the smartest of lawyers. At least, that’s what they want Anderson to think.

“I do,” she replies. “We’re practically handing him a weakness to pick at. He’d have to be an idiot to pass it up, and he’s no idiot.”

Jo doesn’t look nearly so certain, but she stands, stretching slightly as she moves away from her computer. “Well, it’ll have to be enough. At least for tonight. When do you want to send it?”

Laurel isn’t listening anymore. She grabs the remote from off of Jo’s desk and quickly turns up the volume on the TV that’s been playing in mute in the background as they’ve worked. It’s just the evening news – Laurel usually keeps it on just to make sure she knows about anything big going down in the city – but right now it’s playing news about Moira Queen’s trial. And, according to the banner on the bottom of the screen, the sinking of the _Queen’s Gambit_.

Her gut is in her throat as the newscaster’s words finally become audible.

 _“… blackmailed through the kidnapping of her now ex-husband, then current CEO of Queen Consolidated, now CFO of Star City National Bank, Walter Steele, as well as threatening the lives of her children. This, however, was supposedly not the start of Moira Queen’s troubles. It was quickly revealed that Merlyn was originally working not only with Moira Queen but with Robert Queen as well – and when Mr. Queen decided not to participate in the Dark Archer’s plans, Merlyn decided to eliminate him. Details have not been released, but it is reported that the defense has already presented evidence backing their claim that Mr. Merlyn was responsible for the sinking of the_ Queen’s Gambit, _killing Mr. Queen in the process and stranding his son, Oliver Queen, on a remote island for five years. Oliver Queen was not available for comment –”_

The television shuts off and Laurel looks over to see that Jo has grabbed the remote from her hand without her even noticing.

“You don’t need to hear that,” her friend says.

Laurel doesn’t care. She’s not even mad. She’d heard all she’d needed to hear.

Sara. Malcolm Merlyn had been responsible for Sara’s death. She’d known that Malcolm had been behind Walter’s kidnapping. She’d known that he was the Dark Archer. She’d known that he was the architect responsible behind the plan to level the Glades, and that Moira Queen had, supposedly, only been ever pressured into it. But to think that this all started over six years ago, that the _Gambit_ had gone down because Robert Queen had tried to back out of the plan that had ultimately resulted in the miniquake – and could have been a whole lot worse had Green Arrow and Superman not gotten involved…

“He killed Sara,” she hears her own voice say faintly, as if echoing from the other side of a long tunnel. She feels Jo’s careful hand on her shoulder, is faintly aware of her friend leading her back to her seat.

All this time, Laurel’s harbored doubts about Malcolm Merlyn. Not about the fact that he was a bad person – she knows that unequivocally; he’s a murderer who wanted to kill thousands – but about the fact that he was Tommy’s father. It had been for Tommy’s sake that she’d wondered if, given the chance, he would have been capable of change. It had been for Tommy’s sake that part of her had wanted him to have lived through that night, for the Arrow not to have killed him. She’d wanted him in jail for life, no doubt about that, but she’d regretted that Tommy had lost him permanently that night, with no hope of whether or not he could have been redeemed.

But Malcolm killed Sara. He’d wanted to kill Robert Queen, and okay, yeah, that’s objectively bad, but it’s not any different from all the murders the Dark Archer had committed. (And Robert Queen, Laurel is willing to admit, was not all that great of a person, even if she in no way wanted him dead.)

Except he hadn’t just targeted Robert Queen. He’d targeted the _Queen’s Gambit_. Sara had been on that boat. Oliver. The crew. Too many lives lost, just because Robert had finally decided to try and do the right thing.

Sara’s life.

Laurel’s had time to adjust to losing Sara. She’d been angry, and then she’d fought against that anger, because she’d fallen for Oliver too, so how could she have blamed her little sister for that. And then Oliver had come home, and the anger had resurged all over again, and she’d _hated_ him for a time, hated that he’d lived while Sara hadn’t. She knows now that isn’t his fault (knew it then too, even if she hadn’t been willing to admit it). She’s reconciled with Oliver. The anger is gone. The grief isn’t, but its manageable.

Sara’s death had been tragic and awful and heart wrenching, but it’d been an accident. She wouldn’t let herself blame Sara. She’d finally stopped blaming Oliver. (And she’d never blamed her mother, not really, after learning that the woman had let Sara leave.)

It’d been an accident. And now it isn’t any more.

“Laurel, you’re freaking me out,” Jo’s voice cuts through her panic, clear and sharp with just a hint of her friend’s own panic beneath the words.

Laurel blinks and breathes in. She’s had a lot of practice, working on handling blaming others. According to the news, it is Malcolm’s fault her sister is dead. That’s alright. She can process that. For a long time, she’d blamed Oliver. She knows how to handle blame.

“I’m alright,” she finds herself saying.

“No, you’re really not,” Jo counters. She shoves a glass of water in Laurel’s face.

Laurel doesn’t know when her friend left to go fill up the paper coffee cup, but she takes a sip. Tap water. Not the Glades’ finest. But the feel of the rough paper in her hand and the taste of the water grounds her.

“I am,” she insists. “I always knew Malcolm was…” Whether it’s shock at what she just learned or a love for Tommy, Laurel can’t say whatever it is she’s thinking. “I just…”

“Yeah,” Jo says. “Look, that, that was a lot, alright? But… he’s dead now. Sara…”

Yeah, Laurel knows that. Sara’s killer – because now she _has_ a killer, now Laurel knows she was murdered, if only as a consequence of murdering Robert Queen – is in the ground. There’s nothing more to be done to him. (And Laurel knows she certainly doesn’t blame Tommy, or even Moira Queen.)

“Yeah,” she echoes. “No, no, I know. You’re right. Malcolm’s dead. The Arrow got justice.”

Jo stares at her uncertainly. “But…” she prompts.

“Did Oliver know?” Laurel asks uncertainly, before she can stop herself. Did Thea? Did Tommy?

Actually, Tommy probably didn’t, but Oliver and Thea have been talking with their mother, learning the truth from her while she sits in jail awaiting her trial. How much had Moira told them before tonight? How much have they been keeping from her? Does it matter, with Malcolm already dead and gone?

Before Jo can answer, Laurel refocuses on the computer screen. “Send it tomorrow morning, beginning of business hours.”

Jo blinks at her. “What?”

Laurel nods at the screen. “The email. Send it tomorrow morning.”

Jo looks to the screen, then back to her. “Laurel, you cannot seriously be –” she starts to say, exasperation in her tone.

“I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Jo,” Laurel cuts her off. She’s got someone to blame now for Sara’s death, but that someone is dead, and, oh yeah, also Tommy’s dad. For a little while at least, she doesn’t want to think about it.

Jo hesitates, glances away, then looks back again. Laurel figures she’ll return to talking about Dr. Anderson, or maybe some of the other cases that have crossed either of their desks lately, or even the other Listers. But Jo goes an entirely different direction than the one Laurel’s thoughts are headed in. “How are you and Tommy doing?”

Laurel blinks at her, surprised out of her earlier shock and not entirely understanding the question. “What?”

“Well, it’s just… y’know…?”

Laurel doesn’t know. “Tommy and I are fine,” she says, almost defensively. Has she said anything recently to give Jo the impression otherwise? Has _Tommy_? (Malcolm’s acts are almost entirely forgotten, for a moment. She could never blame Tommy for what his father did.)

“No, I know that,” Jo says, quick to reassure her. “It’s just, you’ve said he’s been… struggling. After…”

The momentarily relief she’d felt at misinterpreting her friend’s concern vanishes in the blink of an eye. Yeah, she’s glad that Jo doesn’t think something’s wrong with her and Tommy, but…

Laurel shakes her head. “The nightmares are better,” she admits, “but he still won’t talk about it.”

Jo only stares at her, unimpressed. “I seem to recall a certain someone who got right back to work after _her_ kidnapping.”

Laurel flushes. Alright, so maybe she’s being a bit hypocritical. Has she told anyone what happened that night, other than her dad? The only thing Jo knows is that the Arrow saved her, which is the only thing she knows about Tommy’s kidnapping as well.

“I see your point,” she admits reluctantly. “But he’s been hanging out with Oliver lately anyway. I, I think he’s doing alright.”

“Well go on then and get home to him,” Jo chides her gently. “We’ve worked late enough as it is.”

She’s right, and they’d finished what they meant to do anyway. Laurel watches as Jo schedules the email to be sent at 9 am the next morning, and then they’re both on their feet packing up for the night.

“And Laurel,” Jo says softly. “If you ever need anyone to talk to…”

“Thanks, Jo,” Laurel says sincerely. She’s not sure she’ll be ready to talk about it for a while, but she’s certainly not going to talk to Tommy, Thea, or Oliver about it, given their own parents’ involvements in Sara’s death, regardless of which side they were on. She appreciates the offer.

In the meantime, maybe telling Tommy about her own kidnapping will get him to open up about his. He could probably use a distraction from Malcolm’s crimes even more than she could tonight.

* * *

* * *

_January 2, 2014, early evening:_

It's a sunny day in January when they read off the verdict, and Moira Queen is declared a free woman once more. She can’t help but stare in shock for a few moments after the judge states she has been found “not guilty of all charges”. Only a moment though, before her eyes move to her children.

Thea looks equally surprised, torn between relief and uncertainty. She’s handled Moira’s actions the hardest, between the two of them, and she’s still reconciling the mother she’d known with the woman who’d worked with Malcolm to level the Glades. But she grins at Moira, after a moment, letting the relief overtake her, even if Moira knows she’s still not fully comfortable with all that Moira had done under threat.

Oliver’s surprise is more subtle, less obvious, but then, so are the rest of his emotions these days. She’s starting to see that now. She hadn’t let herself, when he’d come home, too determined to have things return to normal, but Moira’s finally stopped seeing her children for what she wanted them to be and started seeing them for who they are. (She is so _proud_ of the people her children have grown into.)

She can’t deny that she isn’t surprised at the final outcome either though. It’s been a tense few days, no matter how hopeful the trial has been. She’d allowed herself to lean toward optimism, these past few days: five years, maybe, instead of the fifteen she’d been willing to plea for, but… not guilty of all charges? She knows what she’d done, under duress or not, and as much as she very much does not want to go to prison, guilt had stayed her hand from tipping things in her favor. She’d gotten the best lawyer money could buy, then stayed out of it. She hadn’t extended her influence on the judges, on the jury, on the opposing lawyers.

It turns out, she hadn’t needed to, and she isn’t about to argue with the final verdict. (She hadn’t dreamed of getting out so soon, but she’s missed too much of her children’s lives already. She isn’t going to miss any more.)

The sun is still shining by the time Moira finishes going through processing, filling out paperwork, and picking up the belongings she was taken to jail in, though it’s dipping down near the horizon now, blue skies darkening. She’d told Oliver and Thea not to wait for her, so she takes a chauffeured car home on her own. Truthfully, she relishes the peace of the drive.

She’s been in jail for over six months. The freedom of being outside is overwhelming and Moira has always been the type to never display her weaknesses in front of others, not even her children. She’ll take the moments of solitude before setting up her masks again.

That isn’t the only reason she enjoys the drive home alone. It’s a shock, a transition, in more ways than just the physical. Moira hadn’t considered that she’d be going home anytime soon. Five years, at least, at the bare minimum, she’d always figured. (It’s a number she’d kept repeating to herself, the most optimistic she could get, without rigging the trial herself. And she’d learned from her earlier crimes. She’d known she deserved to be there.) She hadn’t let herself think about what she might do when the trial was over, because she’d thought she’d be in prison. She’s not.

The reasoning for that, the fact that the jury found her not guilty of all charges, rings strangely to her. (She can still hear the newscaster’s words, on the footsteps of the courthouse after the trial: _“An example of the corruption of Star City, even within the justice system, or a jury sympathetic to the plight of a mother blackmailed with the safety of her children at stake, her first husband dead and her second kidnapped?”_ ). If someone got her out, she needs to know – she’s not about to owe anyone a debt. For the most part though, her mind lingers on other things. She doesn’t want to think about the trial, or all the tense visits with her children in jail, or the meetings with her lawyer, or the strange therapy sessions she’d had weekly, for some reason, and the unsettling psychiatrist, Dr. Williams, who’d given them.

All she can think about for the moment is how much of her children’s lives she’s missed. Thea, she knows, is still dating Roy. She’s managing Verdant, which Oliver still owns, and she’d been on track to pass the two online classes she’d taken for the fall semester, with another class scheduled for the spring. Oliver… Oliver hasn’t told her much about his own life. When she has managed to coax him to talk about something other than her trial, other than Thea, he talks about Queen Consolidated, or Verdant. He doesn’t talk about his late nights, or the few injuries she’s seen him with, or the state of his city. He doesn’t talk about… Well, Moira only suspects anyway, but she’d like to think a mother knows.

Regardless, she’s missed out on too much and she only has herself to blame. True, Malcolm deserves more blame than her, perhaps – she doesn’t doubt that she’d made the right choice in the days after Robert’s murder; she’d made the only choice available to her, and she can blame Malcolm for that. But afterward, in the years Oliver had been gone… It’d just been her and Thea, and then Walter, and she’d fooled herself into believing that everything she’d done was to keep Thea safe. But it’d been _five_ years. She knows her resources are vast, is aware of her own power. She could have done something. She can try to pretend that backing out would have only gotten her killed, as she’d had to watch Frank die, but she knows better.

She’d tried and failed to get Malcolm assassinated, certainly, but she’d had five years. It had been fear that had stayed her hand, fear of Malcolm, not a lack of an inability to stand up for herself. Now she’s suffering from her inaction.

She’s free though. A trial of her peers has exonerated her, whether through bribery or not. And with the car ride to collect herself, she can greet her children calmly when she arrives home, with warm hugs and loving arms.

Moira Queen will not let anyone control her ever again. And she will do anything in her power to keep her children safe. (She also knows, however, that that means she actually has to get to know them. She has to be the mother she never was before. She has to make sure that she stays a part of their lives. Even if that means not telling them, not telling Thea, the truth about her history with Malcolm.)

* * *

Oliver and Thea are waiting for her when she gets home. They’re standing in the foyer, postures pristine, not a hair out of place. Something in Moira’s heart aches at the sight of it, and she’s not sure if the feeling is regret for how she’s raised her children or love at the sight of finally being home with them. She sweeps Thea up in a hug first, smiling broadly, and ignores the hesitation in Thea’s movements before her daughter gives in and squeezes back just as tightly. Oliver, her precious Oliver, is much more reserved in his movements. His grip is just as tight, but stiff, and he lets go sooner than Thea had.

“We gave the staff the day off,” he starts, as he pulls back. “Raisa –”

“Oliver, Oliver darling, that can wait,” she chides him gently. They’ve already told her about the new maid they’d hired, and Moira can wait to hear everything about the estate until after she’s caught up with her children first. She can’t help but wonder though, is he falling back on propriety because that’s what she taught her children, or because he can’t think of anything else to say?

Regardless, Moira reaches up to put a hand on her son’s cheek while her other hand reaches over and lands gently on Thea’s shoulder. “Right now,” she tells them both, “I just want to spend some time with my children.”

Oliver and Thea exchange glances, something unreadable passing between them, and something in Moira _aches_ again at the sight of it. She used to be able to read her children. She’s not sure when that stopped. She’s not sure how she hadn’t noticed that earlier.

“Alright, Mom,” Thea agrees, moving Moira’s hand off her shoulder to clasp it tightly in her own.

Oliver pulls back slightly, giving Moira’s other hand a squeeze, like his sister, but not holding on. “I was just going to say that Raisa made us dinner,” he says gently. “Just the three of us.”

Of course. Of course. Moira smiles back at him. “That sounds lovely.”

These are her _children,_ and no one will ever get between her and them ever again – not even herself. Moira doesn’t care how long it will take Oliver and Thea to get used to her again, she won’t ever stop trying to be a part of their lives. Not anymore.

* * *

* * *

_January 3, 2014, evening:_

“Roy again tonight, right?” Digg asks as Oliver reaches the bottom of the stairs. As per the new normal, on the days when Oliver doesn’t get to the bunker until after dark (too busy with Queen Consolidated), both he and Felicity have arrived before him. The trend won’t last forever – they’re shifting back into their old schedule with Felicity and Digg trying to rotate nights off, and Digg won’t be guarding Tommy forever – but Oliver still appreciates it every time he sees them as he arrives.

He also appreciates that neither Digg nor Felicity seem inclined to ask how Moira’s doing. They’d had enough of that discussion last night and Oliver’s made it clear that his family needs a little time, on their own, to settle back in together. (That also explains why Thea isn’t here, because as much as she’s reconnected with Moira, Oliver knows she’s a bit unsettled to have their mother living with her again.)

Oliver nods in response, moves for his suit, and then pauses as he sees the look that Felicity and Digg exchange at his movement. “What?”

“Just… have you given letting him know any more thought? I mean, we’ve seen evidence of his strength, sure, but he doesn’t seem to be losing it or anything.”

Slade had seemed more or less alright in the beginning too. It had only been after he’d learned that Oliver was responsible for Shado’s death that he’d turned into a complete madman. (He’d been obsessed with going after Ivo, but Oliver thinks it was the betrayal of a friend – and the fact that Oliver had lied to him about Shado’s death – that had really tipped him over the edge.) Oliver just needs to figure out what Roy’s trigger point might be. Thea, obviously, but he needs to know more than that, needs to know if there’s anything else that might ignite Roy’s anger. He needs to be sure that Roy has practice controlling his anger.

“I need more time,” he says, keeping his tone even rather than snapping out a tense _“Not yet.”_ Teamwork. Cooperation. It’s not just his decision anymore. (Oliver knows this, believes it, is working hard on enforcing it, but if it came down to it… He gets the final call. It’s not so much a belief or a desire as it is a fact in his mind. Maybe that’s the problem, maybe that’s what Felicity and Digg have such trouble accepting, but this is Oliver’s team and Oliver’s mission and he’ll never be able to fully convince himself that his decisions aren’t the best. If he were ever emotionally compromised, or if the topic was something that Digg or Felicity knew more about… But tactically? When it came to the safety and security of his team? Oliver knows best.)

“Do you… I mean, how long do you think?”

If Oliver didn’t know better, he’d suspect that Felicity was asking on behalf of Thea. But Thea’s been focusing on the trial this week, and with Moira back at home she’s been spending time again with Roy and Laurel, and she still works Verdant shifts most of the time Oliver’s in the foundry anyway. As far as Oliver knows, she hasn’t been communicating much with Felicity or Diggle. They don’t know each other well enough for Thea to prod Felicity into action on her behalf. No, Felicity’s asking for her own sake.

“Roy isn’t pressing,” Oliver points out. He doesn’t doubt that Roy is curious, but the man is focused on controlling himself right now, as Oliver has asked of him, now that he knows all about the Mirakuru in his system.

“Thea is,” Digg counters.

Oliver knows that well enough. To be honest, he’s not sure Thea will be able to lie to Roy for long. Digg and Felicity he’d chosen to reveal the truth to because he knew they could keep a secret. Thea… she won’t tell the public, he’s not worried about that, but after Moira’s betrayal she’s not as comfortable keeping the truth from her loved ones. She’s been lied to too much to do the same to others. Still, it’s been a chaotic month for her. Enough to keep her distracted from the fact that she’s lying to Roy. Enough to give Oliver more time yet to make a proper decision.

“Then she can ask me herself,” Oliver says. It’s the team’s decision, but the team isn’t just the three of them anymore. Oliver knows he’s putting off a discussion because he knows he doesn’t agree with Digg and Felicity, knows this isn’t the proper way to proceed, but putting off the discussion is better than outright disagreeing with them. Better than starting another argument they might not be able to come back from. “Is that a problem?” he finds himself asking.

Diggle and Felicity exchange another look. “No man,” Digg says. “Just… just keep it in mind, alright?”

That, Oliver can agree to easily enough. He nods and, as his partners don’t seem to have any other news to share, he moves to change.

* * *

Roy beats Oliver to the empty warehouse Oliver’s been training him in, as he does most nights so far since they’d started. (Sometimes he uses the same warehouse as the one Oliver has taught Superman a few moves in, from time to time, so he knows its relatively secure, but sometimes he wants the tight corridors and openness of the alleys of the Glades. Tonight is a warehouse night.)

Every night they meet, no matter the lateness of the hour, Roy seems pent up, bursting with energy and ready for action. It has faded slightly, as Roy’s come to terms with the Mirakuru in his blood, and the danger of what he’s now capable of, but that energy seems to have given way to a deeper determination.

Before, Roy’d been fighting to help people, the way he himself had been helped. Now, Oliver’s teaching him not to hurt people. Roy had never wanted to be the person that people needed help _from._ He’s been giving it his all, trying to follow Oliver’s training, trying not to let his anger overcome him. For all his rough edges, helping people is so deeply engrained in Roy’s soul that the possibility of hurting someone terrifies him.

“Let me guess,” he starts, only a touch of bitterness in his tone as Oliver fades into view from the shadows, “slapping water?”

The exercise isn’t just about strength, it’s also about control. And what Roy needs most right now is control. The ability to exercise patience. (Oliver’d needed it too, back when Shado had taught the trick to him.)

Oliver quirks an eyebrow, though he knows Roy can’t see it under the hood – especially not with the new mask Barry’d given him. “Is it frustrating you?”

As he’d thought, the question causes Roy to bristle, then instantly force himself to relax. Oliver’s been testing him constantly, gentle probes to rile up his anger.

“Yes,” Roy answers through gritted teeth. He takes a deep breath.

Oliver’s also been teaching him about honesty – you can’t fight what you refuse to acknowledge exists – and breathing techniques.

“Good,” he replies. “Focus on that, learn what it feels like. Know how to recognize your own anger – you control it, it doesn’t control you.” He nods at the bowl of water. “Again.”

Roy takes another deep breath, clearly fighting against his frustration, but he does as Oliver says.

How much longer they’ll be able to keep this up, Oliver doesn’t know, but for now it seems to be working.

* * *

* * *

_January 4, 2014, afternoon:_

Despite how much she hates lies these days – she’s spent enough fury at being kept in the dark to not want to do the same to anyone else – Thea isn’t hesitant about keeping the truth about Oliver’s activities from Walter. Roy, Roy is different. He’s involved with the Green Arrow. He’s being trained by Oliver every night now, for an hour or two minimum before his shift at Verdant. That’s different.

But Walter… Walter has never gotten involved with the Green Arrow. The hero, for all that he’d rescued Walter, is not a part of the man’s life. Walter treats the Green Arrow the same way most of the city does, those middle-class people who’ve never been in danger or never been in trouble. He’s appreciative of the hero but in a detached sort of way. Thea has never discussed the Green Arrow with him before. She doesn’t feel any urge to discuss him with Walter now.

Or, she wouldn’t, if Oliver weren’t eating lunch with them this time. Even then though, Thea isn’t particularly upset over her own lies. Walter asks how Oliver’s doing and they talk about the trial (avoiding all talk of Moira) and Queen Consolidated instead of the Green Arrow. It’s not really lying, Thea figures. It’s just… avoiding the topic.

And then Walter asks what classes (or class, in this case), she’d decided on for the spring semester, and how Roy’s doing, and what Thea actually ends up lying about is Roy. Oliver’s asked that she not say anything to anyone about the Mirakuru he was dosed with, but even if he hadn’t, even if she hadn’t known that Oliver is the Green Arrow and her brother hadn’t been involved, Thea doesn’t think she would have told anyone anyway.

It’s not the kind of thing she would expect anyone to believe.

Despite it all, despite the turmoil and chaos of the last month of her life, lunch with Walter isn’t awkward. It isn’t tense or uncomfortable and it doesn’t make her feel like she’s betraying him. Walter, she has the feeling, would understand.

Instead, the only thing that makes lunch tip toward uncomfortable is the looming specter of Moira Queen in the back of Thea’s mind. Moira knows that she and Oliver are at lunch with Walter, and while it was easy for Thea to see that her mother still has feelings for her ex-stepfather and regrets the way things are between them now, there had been no question of Moira tagging along.

Walter almost definitely doesn’t feel similarly to his ex-wife. He’s come to the manor a few times – Thanksgiving, Christmas, other holidays – but he doesn’t make himself too comfortable, acts like it isn’t his home anymore. It isn’t. Moira, Thea thinks, hasn’t adjusted in the same way.

Thea’s past wanting to hurt her mother the way Moira hurt her, but… Well, Moira had seen Walter “imprisoned” to protect him, and even Thea can tell that he’s still not fully recovered from his ordeal. (Perhaps recovered isn’t the right word. Like Oliver, his experiences changed him. He’s not the man who got taken over a year ago. He probably won’t ever be again.) She can’t blame him for not wanting to see her mother.

“You going home?” Oliver asks, once Walter has driven off and it’s just the two of them standing in the parking lot. He, Thea knows, has to head back to Queen Co.

She shakes her head. “I was going to meet up with Roy. Why?” As usual when she’s face to face alone with Oliver these days, there’s a conflicting thread of pride and dread in her gut. _Does this have to do with the Green Arrow_ , she can’t help but think, every time he asks her a question.

Oliver grimaces. “Text me when you’re heading home?” he suggests. “One of us should probably check on Mom.”

Thea grimaces too. It’s not that she doesn’t want to, necessarily, but things are still awkward with the three of them as Moira adjusts to life out of prison. “Yeah, alright,” she agrees. Knowing Oliver’s schedule as well as she does now, she’s fairly certain she’ll beat him home, if he even goes to the manor before tomorrow. “See you tonight then?”

“You stopping by?” There’s a wariness to Oliver’s question, but he’s yet to ask her to stop her training with Felicity, who’s been teaching Thea about their computer systems, so Thea’ll take it.

“Was planning on it, but only during my breaks,” Thea replies, keeping her tone purposefully light.

Oliver gives a short nod and they bid each other farewell and go their separate ways.

* * *

Sin’s not an idiot. She’d grown up in the Glades, she’s spent the last few years of her life living meal to meal on the streets, some nights without even a roof over her head. But she’s not the kind of idiot who claims to “know the streets”. You can’t _know_ the streets. You can memorize a road map and learn how to handle yourself in a fight, but that doesn’t mean you “know the streets”. It’s a useless saying anyway. Gang territories are often changing, and if they aren’t, well, then maybe the leadership within a gang has shifted. There’s no way to predict who you’ll run into in any one area of the Glades.

She’s _familiar_ with the streets, familiar enough to know not to go poking around places in the middle of the night. No, safer to go in the daytime, when there’s more people around – when it’s less likely she’ll be notice. Less likely she’ll get stabbed for the few dollars in her pocket.

The clinic she and Roy and Thea have been planning to target (just her now, because her new _friends_ are so _busy_ lately) gets plenty of traffic during the day. Enough that Sin manages to wander on in and sit in the waiting room for an hour before she gets bored, without anyone noticing her enough to even ask if she needs help. Understaffed, with people starting to worry about flu season in the new year, and with still too few clinics in the Glades after the miniquake.

That’s not why she’s here. She’s not actually here for anything in particular, just… rumors. Whispers, amongst the more violent of the Glades residents she comes into contact with. Rumors of corruption.

They say, if you want to deal with an arrow wound these days, no questions asked, this is the place to go. Normally, Sin’d be all for a snitch free zone. Cops can be corrupt too, and some people simply need to stay out of the system. She knows how it goes – she’s eighteen now, but she wasn’t always, and if anyone in a position of power had figured that out… Well, she’d avoided the few scrapes she’d gotten into. But the people who tend to _receive_ an arrow wound these days… Sure, there’s still the odd lacky, just taking whatever job he needs to to get by, but mostly these days the Arrow only targets those that really deserve it. Which means that this clinic’s helping the worst of the worst, instead of the most desperate, like they should be doing.

Sin doesn’t really have any clue of how _she’s_ going to do something about it, all she knows is that she _is_. She’s done sitting around – and that includes sitting around waiting for Abercrombie and Princess to get their acts together. She’ll figure something out on her own. She always has before.

* * *

* * *

_January 6, 2014, night:_

Monday night, Oliver hears the familiar sound of Roy’s footsteps approaching and he mutes his end of the comm, stopping his muttered conversation with Digg and Felicity about their latest leads on the Mirakuru as he turns to face the younger man. Roy’s fist flies at him from nowhere, unexpected, unanticipated. Oliver just barely manages to move in such a way that he isn’t completely knocked unconscious by the Mirakuru fueled punch. He falls to the ground anyway, head ringing.

“Murderer!” Roy screams at him, and kicks him in the chest, throwing Oliver back against the wall.

There’s no time to wonder why, no time to chastise himself for letting his guard down, for trusting a Mirakuru soldier, no matter that it’s Roy. He struggles to his feet, dodging the next punch that Roy throws at him. The man’s fist slams into the wall, tearing at the brick, and as he pulls it free Oliver skitters backward, out of range.

Roy finally frees himself, spinning to face the Arrow with a vicious snarl on his face. “You killed them!” he screams, accusingly.

Oliver ducks low, swinging his bow at Roy’s chest, and manages to connect with brutal force. The kid stumbles, even angrier than before. His whole body, his entire mind focused on the fight before him, Oliver swipes his leg outward at his opponent’s feet, knocking him to the ground. With a desperate grab, Roy latches onto his foot before Oliver can fully pull it back. Pain whites his vision for a moment, but pain had stopped being a distraction a long time ago.

He wrenches himself backward, stumbling down onto one knee. Similarly, Roy staggers to his feet, placing a few more steps between the two of them.

Oliver’s ankle is broken – he heard the snap, felt the fire race up his leg – and several of his ribs are definitely cracked, but his arms still work just fine. Down on one knee he finally has enough distance between him and Roy to line up a shot and fires a wire-cable arrow at the young man out of his mind with rage. It connects solidly, throwing Roy into the brick wall behind him.

Roy struggles against the bindings, and Oliver takes the briefest of moments to catch his breath. Roy might be untrained, but he’d caught Oliver by surprise and he has Mirakuru strength on his side. He doesn’t have long to recuperate. The steel pins at the end of the cables are deep in the wall, but Oliver can already see the brick and mortar crumbling around them as Roy struggles.

“Roy!” he shouts, trying to get through to him. “Listen to me, Roy!” It’s not working. Oliver stands, placing most of his weight on his good leg and ignoring the subsequent tinges of pain from the little weight that his broken ankle takes. He throws off his hood, clicks off the voice modulator, and pulls his mask down around his neck. (It’s not an action that requires thought. There’s no time for thought right now.) “Roy!”

Finally, Roy stills slightly, narrowing his eyes at Oliver.

“I promise you,” Oliver continues strongly, taking a (very painful) step forward, “I didn’t do it Roy. I didn’t kill them.” He doesn’t know who, doesn’t know where or when or why, but that’s not important right now. Roy caught him by surprise, and now he’s injured, and he can’t face a Mirakuru fueled opponent right now, especially one he’s not willing to kill. “Think about Thea.”

Roy gapes, blinking, and seems to come back to himself. Apparently, the shock of learning that Oliver is the Green Arrow is enough to snap him out of his mindless attack. (The mention of Thea probably helped.) “You… you’re…”

“I didn’t do it Roy,” Oliver repeats more softly, allowing himself to limp a little bit as he takes another step forward. “Do you believe me?”

Roy nods mutely, still staring, and Oliver takes the time to click on his comm again.

“Felicity, are there any cameras near my location?” he asks. He’d been waiting in an alley for Roy, and though he’s scoped out the area well enough, it’s still just a little-used alley in the Glades. He needs to be certain. (He thinks about holding back Felicity’s name, but Roy knows who he is now – maybe it’s time he meets the rest of the team too.)

_“What? Uh, hold on… No, there’s nothing. Why, what happened?”_

Oliver shakes his head, regardless of the fact she can’t see it. Roy’s attack had been so sudden, so unexpected, and his comm had been off at the time, so Felicity has no idea of the fight that had just occurred. ( _Not that she would care_ , he thinks bitterly, and immediately regrets it. Felicity and Diggle had every right to be angry with his secrets and they’re almost back to the way things were before. Just because they’d had a small fight the other night about priorities and keeping the truth from Roy even as Thea knows the truth doesn’t mean they’re leaving again. He’d _seen_ how Felicity and Digg both had reacted to his near-death experience last month.)

“Long story,” he says out loud, “Roy wasn’t happy with the Arrow. I’ll fill you in when we get back.”

 _“We?”_ Felicity asks, but Oliver mutes his connection before she gets the chance to say anymore.

He meets Roy’s gaze again.

“You’re… you’re really him. You’re the Green Arrow.”

Oliver nods once.

Roy blinks again, and then his eyes scan Oliver’s body, and the alley, torn up from their fight. He seems to realize once more that he’s tied up, and his look of shocked awe turns to horror. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Oliver, I…”

“I’m fine,” Oliver says easily (his chest aches and his head is pounding and he really doesn’t want to put any weight on his right foot right now, but he’s fine. He is.) “You weren’t yourself.” He limps forward, and disconnects the cables still holding Roy to the wall.

“I’m so sorry,” Roy repeats.

“What happened?”

“My neighbors, I thought you’d… There was an arrow, sticking out of both of their chests. Green. Robby was only… only sixteen.”

Saying that is troubling news would be an extreme understatement, because if Roy’s recalling events accurately then that means there’s someone out there killing innocents and framing the Green Arrow, but Oliver files it away for later. Right now, his biggest priority is ensuring that Roy doesn’t slip again, that his state of mind stays stable.

He shakes his head. “It wasn’t me,” he promises.

“I know. I mean, I did but I didn’t… I…”

“You needed a target,” Oliver finishes for him, and with green arrows sticking out of his friend’s chests, Oliver had been the easiest option. (There’s someone killing with _his_ arrows, but Oliver can’t think about that right now.)

Roy nods. “I’m so sorry Oliver, I didn’t mean…”

He had, and he hadn’t. Oliver understands that. Better than Roy could ever imagine. (He’d meant to hurt, to punish, to release the anger and rage inside of him, but he hadn’t meant to hurt the Green Arrow. To hurt Oliver. Sometimes, that’s not enough. Sometimes, intentions don’t matter. But this time Oliver is fine letting it be enough.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've managed to speed through the end of December here, but our heroes still have a lot on their plates. Chapter 31: Out in the Open, should be posted January 7th. Thanks for reading!


	31. Out in the Open

_January 7, 2013, evening:_

Oliver’s running late when Emily Ambler stops him as he heads for the door, crutches dug into his armpits. The new maid (not so new now, he realizes – it’s been over half a year since the Undertaking and the miniquake) is quiet, mostly. She hasn’t become part of the household yet, the way Raisa has. But she doesn’t mind working for a distracted and distant playboy CEO or an eighteen-year-old ex-addict club manager, and she hasn’t made any fuss about Moira Queen returning home, and her background check had returned squeaky clean. (And she hasn’t said a thing about Oliver’s most recent injury, staying out of his business entirely.)

She’s no threat, and she stays out of their way, still a bit nervous around the billionaires, so when she approaches Oliver looking nervous he settles his own anxieties and ushers her into the office. He’s not technically late for anything. The workday is over, his tasks as CEO have been completed for the day, and the only reason he’d come home was to have dinner with Thea and his mother before heading to the foundry. He can’t go out on patrol for a couple more days at least, until his ankle heals up enough that any brace he wears won’t be noticeable.  

Gold is still on the streets, though, seemingly having vanished off the face of the Earth. He’s laying low, for now, but Oliver wants to find him before he surfaces to cause more havoc. Digg’s still digging into leads on Tommy’s and Thea’s kidnappers. There’s someone out there planning to make more Mirakuru. And now there’s someone killing people with green arrows (and Roy knows the truth; Oliver’d sent him home to Thea, yesterday, but tonight he’ll be meeting the rest of the team).

Still, Emily looks nervous and hesitant, and maybe she _has_ decided not to stick around, with Moira’s return. His mother had been polite and friendly when Oliver had introduced the two of them, but Oliver knows she can be intimidating, and he’s not around at all hours of the day. Moira is. (Emily is coming to him, after all, and even if he’d been the one to hire her, Moira is technically in charge of the household. He’s not sure yet what that means.)

“I, I’m sorry Mr. Queen, I don’t want to bother you, I just…”

“It’s alright, Emily,” Oliver says firmly. “What is it?”

“I… some people came to my house, last night. They… they wanted to know about Mrs. Queen. About what she has been doing, since, since…”

Oliver stiffens where he stands on one foot, swallowing. His thoughts, which had been straying to his plans for the evening, sharpen into razor focus on his surroundings. This is a threat to his mother. He gives it his full attention.

“They… they offered me a lot of money, Mr. Queen. But I did not take it. I promise you, I will not spy on anyone, no matter how much they offer.” Emily’s words are simultaneously defiant and nervous. She was approached as a weak link, the weakest link of Queen manor. She has no real loyalty to them, just the courage to do what is right, apparently. She also thinks that doing the right thing – admitting that someone had tried to bribe her – might have just gotten her fired. Oliver can see it in her eyes.

With another employer, it might have. With another rich one percenter who couldn’t afford a weak link. Maybe even his own mother would have, after seeing Emily tremble before her (and maybe that was why Emily had come to Oliver instead). Who was to say that she was telling the truth? Who was to say that she hadn’t taken other bribes, and was only revealing this one to hide the others? But there is honesty in her fear, Oliver thinks, and he cannot blame her for being the weak link. ( _Not that weak_ , Oliver thinks too. _Strong enough for this._ )

He drops his shoulders slightly, loosens his muscles and lets a soft smile onto his face. His posture shifts ever so slightly, his palms turn to face outward. Open body language. Friendly. Unintimidating – no matter the irritation he feels himself.

“Ms. Ambler, Emily, how many times have I told you to call me Oliver?” he reprimands gently. Calm and not accusing. Turning attention away from the point of conversation she’d come to speak to him about. He isn’t mad – not at her – and sometimes it’s more believable to show that rather than tell it.

She glances over at him, fear and anxiety still present in her gaze, but her own shoulders relax ever so slightly. She offers up a tremulous smile.

“Unfortunately,” Oliver continues in a joking tone, “we Queens are something of celebrities.” He’s trying to remind her of his own share of time in the tabloids – not his mother’s imprisonment or his sister’s drugged car crash – but it doesn’t seem to work. He lifts a hand, shifting his body weight as he lets go of one crutch, and places it gently – gently, lightly, capable of being brushed off with little more than a shrug – on her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me,” he says sincerely, “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Raisa had used to tell him stories when he was younger, before Thea had ever been born, of paparazzi hounding her for information about the Queens and the ways she’d fended them off.

Those stories had probably been exaggerated, but Oliver had grown up used to people wanting to know his every move. (He’ll put a stop to anyone spying on his mother, and his paranoia will have him investigating this deeply, but that’s probably all it is. Reporters have been hounding him for days, every time he leaves or enters Queen Consolidated. Moira Queen is the woman who defied the architect of the miniquake, and before that she’d had a hand in helping it come to be. Of course the media wants to know more.)

But still Emily doesn’t relax completely. She swallows and doesn’t meet his gaze. “If… if you say so, Mr. Queen.” She moves to leave.

Oliver – finally giving in to the paranoia that’s been demanding his attention during the entire conversation, finally admitting that dread has taken up its familiar place in his gut and that he’s been keeping a careful eye on the exits since Emily first spoken – tightens his grip on her shoulder just enough to get her to stop – a quick squeeze, light and weightless – then pulls his arm off her shoulder so she doesn’t feel trapped.

His movement is enough. She pauses.

“It’s probably nothing,” he repeats, “but if it’s not…” He eyes her with concern. He’d known she’d been more terrified than the situation had called for but had simply hoped she’d been overreacting. He’d hoped, but he’d never really believed. “Do you feel like you’re in danger?”

She swallows again and this time she meets his gaze. “They came to my house,” she says shakily. “To my _house_. I have two kids and a husband at home, I…”

Oliver’s brain narrows in on the statement, and probably not the part that Emily was focused on. “Husband?” he asks, too sharply. _Rein it in,_ he tells himself, _she’s not the enemy_.

Emily stiffens. “In all but the law,” she says defiantly. Then she deflates. “If we were to marry,” she admits, tone dripping with reluctance, “he would lose his benefits.”

Disabled long-term boyfriend. Father of both of her children. Oliver relaxes again, tells his paranoia to calm down. That matches the background check he’d done before hiring her.

“If you think they’re in danger,” Oliver says, returning to her original point, cursing himself for questioning her and making her uncomfortable again, “there are plenty of empty rooms in Queen manor. You could even take the guest house on the grounds.” It’s not really a question of _if_ – Emily is terrified which means this might not just be some paparazzi looking for gossip (or just some really persistent paparazzi) – but he’s not going to force her. Not that he’s going to let her say no either though.

Emily’s eyes widen slightly in surprise before she quickly glances away again. “Oh, no, Mr. Queen, we couldn’t –”

“I insist.”

“But… Mrs. Queen…?”

Oliver smiles. That guess had been accurate. “My mother is not as cold as she appears to be,” he says. “And truthfully, it might actually do her some good to be around children again. How old are your boys?”

Still nervous, Emily relaxes even more at the memory of her children. “Eight and five,” she says warmly. “Though Theo does not like to be called a _boy_.” The scornful way she says the word tells him she’s mimicking her child’s tone and Oliver appropriately lets out a chuckle at the thought.

Keep her comfortable, keep her relaxed, and get her family to safety. That’s his goal. _This isn’t a mission, Oliver_ , he tells himself. The thought doesn’t quiet ring true.

“That’s settled then. You can keep to your regular schedule and stay as long as you like.”

Emily opens her mouth to argue.

“I insist,” Oliver repeats.

Emily blushes and stammers, trying to wave him off, but she _is_ worried about her family, so it doesn’t take her much convincing. Oliver makes a mental note to tell Moira and Thea later, then tracks down Raisa as Emily leaves to fetch her family.

Raisa only tisks at him when he questions her.

“I have been part of his household for over twenty years,” she says, scornfully. “They know better than to ask.”

Oliver can’t help but grin. Yeah, anyone who approached Raisa would get a talking to, and they both know it. “If you feel like you aren’t safe –” he can’t help but say regardless.

“Perhaps you will lend _me_ that bodyguard of yours?” Raisa asks, raising an eyebrow.

The question startles a chuckle out of Oliver, and a more genuine grin.

Raisa reaches up to pat him briefly on the cheek, smiling warmly. “There you are, always so serious these days, Oliver. I will be fine. They know better than to ask me,” she repeats.

“Even so,” he reaffirms.

It’s Raisa’s turn to chuckle, and she does so fondly.

The conversation with Emily had unsettled Oliver, but the talk with Raisa has comforted him slightly again. It probably _is_ just overactive paparazzi, and Raisa can take care of herself. In the meantime, he’s got a dozen other, more important things on his mind.

“Emily and her family will be staying in the guest house for the foreseeable future,” he tells Raisa. “Can you –”

“I will help her get settled in,” Raisa agrees. “You leave it to me.”

“Спасибо,” Oliver says warmly. Like Emily, Raisa hadn’t questioned him on how he’d broken his ankle. Unlike Emily, she _had_ scolded him for the injury, telling him to stay safer in the future. Oliver knows perfectly well he can’t promise her anything, with his line of work, but the warmth he feels now isn’t just in thanks for her help but in appreciation for her concern. Raisa’s a part of his family too, he knows now, a thought that never would have occurred to him before the _Gambit’s_ sinking.

* * *

Only last month, Oliver had had trouble adjusting to the new crowded feeling in Verdant’s basement; between his old partners and the presence of Tommy and Thea both at the same time, the group had grown to five, and Oliver had had trouble processing how his attempt at a lone crusade to right his father’s wrongs had turned into _this_. And it’s not just a case of Oliver bringing more people into his corner, he knows now, mind straying back to his conversation only a short while ago with Raisa – it’s a case of him finally realizing how many people are already there, how many people he already considers to be his family.

Now there are six of them. The conversation with Emily had held Oliver up enough that almost everyone had beaten him to the basement. Roy was the last to arrive, and as Oliver leads him down the stairs now the younger man doesn’t seem to be able to stop himself from staring around in astonishment at the team that’s decided to commit themselves to the same goal Oliver has. Truthfully, Oliver finds himself staring a bit too.

John Diggle, the first to join him. He’d spent some time thinking about bringing Digg in in the beginning, but he hadn’t fully committed to the idea by the time he’d actually had. He’d seen Digg’s code of ethics from the start, the calm way he’d seemed to understand that Oliver had suffered serious trauma when no one else had, and his desire to save people, but he’s not sure he ever would have involved the other man if Digg hadn’t been injured. He’d been too wrapped up in his mission to think about others, even his family. (He hadn’t really come home for _them_ , he knows now, no matter how badly he’d missed Moira and Thea and Tommy and Laurel and… and home. He’d come home for his father. He’d come home to try and prove to himself that he’d tamed his monster, that he could save lives with the creature inside him.)

Then the two of them had brought in Felicity Smoak, and that hadn’t been terribly planned out either. Oh he’d done his research on her, had contingencies in place, but the night he’d gone to her for help, bleeding from a gunshot inflicted on him when he’d tried to intimidate his own mother… He’d known then that she wouldn’t tell anyone, or at least, he’d been as certain as he could have been when he’d made the call, but the fact that she’d stayed… He hadn’t foreseen that, especially not after Walter had returned home safe and sound. But she’s turned his crusade into her own, and he can see how much she enjoys helping people, even if they still disagree at times.

Tommy had been an accident too, because his best friend’s father had been dying in front of him and he hadn’t been about to let Tommy suffer through that, not if he could help it. Tommy’s reaction had been more what Oliver had expected, fear and disgust and… Well, not hatred. He can see that now, even if he’d thought that had been what it was. It was mostly just fear, he figures now. And even that had changed, Tommy deciding to work with them, to help Oliver, even after he’d killed his father.

It’s… it’d been nothing short of miraculous, whatever ups and downs he’d gone through with Tommy over the past few months, to have so many people helping him achieve his goals, _working_ with him, and not running from the violence in his soul.

Thea had been less of an accident. He’d decided to tell her. The timing of it could have been better. As with the others, he’d only acted in the end because of the danger present, but he hadn’t needed the threat of death that time. That, too, had gone far better than he’d been expecting it too, and then suddenly Thea had been forcing her way down into the basement.

Now there’s Roy. Five other people who know Oliver’s secret, who have an inkling of what the island, what his time away turned him into. And no matter that some of them have run from him in the past, they’re all here now. He doesn’t blame Roy for the awe on his face.

“This is… How many people know?” Roy ends up asking.

Oliver cycles through the names in his mind. Everyone who’s present of course, but also technically… Waller. Anatoly. The Yamishiros. Talia. Sara too, and Barry now as well, though that doesn’t bother him nearly as much. It can’t be helped. All of these people learned the truth long before he’d returned home to avenge his father’s actions – they were instrumental in shaping the monster he is today. But these four, Digg and Felicity, Tommy and Thea, they’re going to be instrumental in shaping him into the hero he might be able to become, one day in the far future.

“Too many,” Oliver answers. “But these are the only ones that matter.” Roy already knows Thea of course, and Tommy, however loosely, but Oliver introduces him to Digg and Felicity, filling Roy in on their roles on the team.

Roy’s nervous and hesitant, constantly sending guilty glances Oliver’s way the whole time, and as the minutes tick by Oliver decides to do something then and there, before Roy worries himself into a panic attack from the guilt. They’re all standing, but there aren’t enough chairs for all of them to sit so Oliver stays where he is. (He thinks about asking to talk to Roy privately, because this is about Roy’s feelings and Roy’s guilt and how Roy is managing the Mirakuru, but he can’t bring himself to. For one, he’s trying to be more open with his teammates. For another, this is Mirakuru, and everyone needs to be as well informed as they can be about it.)

“We need to talk about what happened last night.”

Roy tenses immediately, breath drawing a sharp gasp as his gaze quickly moves to anywhere but Oliver. Thea tenses too, reaching over to talk Roy’s hand, and even though she already knows the truth of what happened, her own gaze seems to be split between Oliver’s new cast and Roy, questions evident in her eyes. (And Digg and Felicity and Tommy, they tense too, if less obviously, if less dramatically, if simply _less_ overall, because the following conversation won’t be pleasant and they all know it.)

However guilty he may feel, however much he might think his regret is threatening to consume him, Roy pushes past if after only a moment, managing to glance in Oliver’s way. He can’t hold Oliver’s gaze for long, but he’s not looking at the floor at least.

“I, I didn’t mean to,” he stammers out. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Is it…? Are you…?”

“I’m fine,” Oliver cuts in, because that’s not what he’d meant, and it’s not his injuries that are the problem.

“Small fracture,” Digg cuts in quietly. “No surgery needed, but he’ll be off his leg for a few weeks.”

Six to eight is typical, Oliver knows. He’s hoping to stay off it entirely for two, then do some light patrols with a brace for the next two weeks before he’s back to full shape, but he knows not to rush things – he doesn’t need to fracture his bones worse than Roy already snapped them.

The young man winces at Digg’s calm assessment. Oliver’s not sure he needed to know, but then, he’s done enough horrible things himself. Sometimes he wants to forget all the blood on his hands, but he knows he can’t ever let himself. He owes it to those people he hurt, to remember them, criminals or bastards or not.

This isn’t comparable – Roy’s got Mirakuru in his blood and he’d been lashing out, not aiming to hurt – but Oliver supposes knowing might still help.

 _I’m not worried about the injury, I got off lightly_ , he thinks about saying, but he’s fairly certain that won’t help anyone’s peace of mind, and with Tommy and Thea there, he doesn’t want to talk about how badly he’s been hurt. (This is part of why he hadn’t wanted them too involved. Being hurt is one thing – he doesn’t care about that – but no matter that it’s still surprising sometimes, he’s got people who care about him. And him being hurt means that _they_ suffer too. Oliver would spare them from that, if he could.)

(He doesn’t mention his ribs.)

He shakes his head instead. “I meant the reason you attacked. Why you called me a murderer. The police seem to be keeping the case quiet – I haven’t spoken to Lance about it yet – but we’ve got the same details they do. Your two neighbors –”

“Robbie and Sarah,” Roy cuts in quietly, teeth gritted. “They, they lived across the street.”

This is personal, for him, Oliver knows. That’s why the Mirakuru had affected him as strongly as it had. Oliver needs to keep this calm, unemotional, or he might be risking another outburst.

He nods at Oliver’s words. “We have the details. But I want to know what you saw that night. What you were thinking.”

“I… I didn’t,” Roy bites his lip and looks away for a moment before he manages to look back and continue. “I don’t really think I thought you murdered them, but you were just standing there, and you hadn’t _stopped_ them from being murdered and…”

Digg gives Oliver a look, one that urges Oliver to reassure Roy, and Thea’s hold on Roy’s hand is tight enough to whiten the tips of her fingers, but Oliver doesn’t say anything. Not yet. Roy needs to get everything off his chest first.

“I don’t blame you,” Roy continues quickly, throwing a horrified look at Oliver. “I mean I know you didn’t, you can’t – I, just… I think that’s what I was thinking, even though –” he cuts himself off again.

There are a thousand reassuring things he could say right now, Oliver knows. _It wasn’t your fault._ Or about how the reaction was only logical, or that maybe Oliver _should_ have been aware of someone in the Glades who’d wanted to kill under his name. Maybe he should reassure Roy about how he managed to stop himself, or praise him on how he’d managed to keep his cool until he’d reached Oliver, someone who could manage to fight back against him, whether that had been his intention or not.

Oliver could say something about how they’ll find the killer. About how they’ll keep training so that it never happens again. He could wave off his injuries, say they’re nothing even though the broken ankle will hold him back for several weeks.

“The Mirakuru was effecting your reaction,” he says instead. “We’ll pick up with your training tomorrow.”

Thea stiffens, opening her mouth to say something. Tommy tenses. Even Digg and Felicity don’t look pleased with Oliver’s words – whether it’s concern about Oliver’s injury, about whether or not Roy might injure him again, or concern for Roy, Oliver can’t tell without giving them his full attention, and right now, he’s looking only at Roy.

Roy doesn’t have the hesitation or reluctance the others do. He feels guilty, that much is incredibly obvious, and he’s blaming himself, but Oliver sees the drive in him nevertheless, could see it even before Roy straightens at his words. Roy is committed to never letting what had happened last night happen again. Shoulders straight, chin up, Roy meets his gaze for the first time that night without looking like he wants to glance away.

He nods once, filled with determination. Oliver meets his gaze. There’s something in Roy purer than he’ll ever be. Roy only wants to help people, Oliver… Oliver wants to help people, but more than that, he wants to make up for all the hurt he’s put into the world. His motives are selfish. It doesn’t matter who Roy was before this, the things he might have done on the streets of the Glades.

Roy only wants to help people. For the first time, Oliver feels an inkling of hope. He’d had a front row seat to Slade’s self-destruction because of the Mirakuru. Roy though… If Roy keeps up his determination, some small part of Oliver starts to consider the fact that the young man might actually be able to beat this.

* * *

In the end, it’s… it’s one of the easiest nights Oliver’s had in a long while, what with all the threats currently roaming the streets of Star City. Truthfully, though, he’s got a recently broken ankle that will take some time to heal, so there’s not much he could do anyway, physically. (An easy night physically, for sure, and even in terms of amount of work done, but emotionally… Emotionally Oliver knows his teammates, old and new, are going to need time to process everything.)

They talk about the fact that someone killed with Green Arrows. A copycat, for now, they consider, especially because Robbie was a fledgling gang member. They’ll look into the siblings’ backgrounds, see who might possibly have known about his induction in the gang and had a problem with it.

They talk about their scant progress on the kidnapping cases. Oliver, Digg, and Felicity are all treating things like the two kidnappings are linked, but truthfully they don’t have any real proof of that yet. With all the fuss of the Mirakuru, they haven’t had much time to look into it. They talk about, briefly, Mirakuru, about recent crime rates, about the sort of things Oliver usually handles, about the way he tends to structure his patrols.

It’s part introduction for Roy, part a way to help Thea continue to ease into helping them, after all her absences in the aftermath of their mother’s trial, and part deference to Tommy’s desire not to know too many details. (In fact, Oliver’s surprised his oldest friend has stuck around as long as he has.)

Honestly, the most open and inclusive conversation they have is about Queen Consolidated. True, that’s about the List, and Oliver’s decision to commit to being CEO for the foreseeable future, not only to help his family’s company survive, but to watch over Rochev, but it’s still something only tangentially related to his work as the Arrow.

(Oliver _wants_ to do more, he _aches_ to do it actually, and the basement fills cramped, and he hasn’t spoken this much to this many people, so _honestly_ in such a long time that he finds himself having to hold himself back from fleeing so many times, but he knows, for now, this is the best he can do. His ache to do something is mental, but his ribs _actually_ ache, and his ankle’s immobile in his cast. Digg and Felicity, they deserve the truth from him, deserve to be involved in his decisions. Tommy and Thea do too, they deserve to know that he wants them in his life. And Roy, Roy needs to know he can fight back against the Mirakuru, needs to know that Oliver doesn’t blame him a bit before the guilt overwhelms him. So. This will have to do for tonight.)

Thea and Roy leave first, together. Roy clearly still feels guilty, and is still full of awe (Oliver doesn’t want to _crush_ that hero worship, not exactly, but he knows he’ll let Roy down eventually, so he needs to find some way to nip it in the bud as soon as he can), but his determination also seems stronger than ever. He’s staved off the worst of the Mirakuru for a little while longer, by telling Roy the truth, but he’s not sure how long Roy’s new quiet awe will hold back the rage the Mirakuru is creating in his heart. (He’s _hopeful_ though, a silver of light in the darkness, and that’s… that’s not nothing. He’ll still be keeping his guard up around Roy for a while though, whatever he thinks of his tenacity.)

The original team of three – him, Digg, and Felicity – linger for a while longer, talking things through, but as Tommy lingers with them, despite his reluctance to get involved, Digg and Felicity exchange glances and are the next to leave.

In the end, it’s just him and Tommy in the basement, and it’s clear Tommy has something to say. That’s probably why he’s stuck around as long as he has.

“What is it?” Oliver asks.

Tommy hesitates, then doesn’t hold back. “You said you’d think about it, Oliver. Now Roy knows too. That’s everyone except for Laurel. She deserves to know.”

Oliver’s mind goes back to the conversation they’d had a few weeks ago. Right. Not quite everyone except for Laurel knows, not really, at least not in terms of everyone in Oliver’s life (his mother, Walter) and not in terms of everyone who works with the Arrow (Lance, Hwang), but Oliver understands what Tommy’s saying. He _has_ been thinking about it, in between everything else that’s been going on, and however much he doesn’t like it, he can’t help but agree. Or at least, he knows he _should_ agree, and that’s near enough to the same thing for him. Thea’s helping now. He’s letting people make their own choices. He _did_ just tell Roy, if only because Roy had been trying to kill him (and forget that Oliver would be dead – he knows Roy would never have been able to live with himself afterward, provided the Mirakuru didn’t warp him entirely).

Laurel needs to know she can turn to him if she gets in trouble with her work – she should have known that a long time ago. “Alright,” he finds himself agreeing calmly, blankly, forcing all emotions from his tone.

Laurel’s been in his corner a long time too. She’s family. She’ll probably hate him for this. She’ll _definitely_ hate him if she ever finds out about Sara. But she deserves to know regardless of what he wants.

Tommy blinks at the single word, seemingly startled. Maybe he hadn’t expected Oliver to agree. Part of Oliver still wants to disagree. He’d never wanted _anyone_ to know. But now five others do, and they’re all… they’re all supporting him. To help others, mainly, but that doesn’t change the fact that they’re working by his side.

But then Tommy’s surprise settles. He meets Oliver’s gaze without hesitation. “ _Thank you_ ,” he says, and there’s sincerity ringing through every syllable.

Oliver stands, grabbing for his crutches, just so he can look Tommy in the eye properly. “Do you want me to tell her you already know?” he asks. “Or do you need to tell her that yourself?”

Tommy takes a moment to consider the question. “I…” he shakes his head. “I, I’ll be waiting. For when you’re done. But… if she asks you anything, tell her the truth, okay?”

Oliver thinks of Sara, running across the world somewhere, hiding from her demons, her family. “Okay,” he lies, just as calmly as he’d agreed earlier, because he’ll tell Laurel the truth about a lot of things, but not that. Not when the only chance that Sara will ever return to her family relies on him keeping her trust. (Not about his five years away either, if he’s being honest, because that he just _can’t_ talk about, physically has trouble forcing the words to his lips.)

* * *

Maybe that night, this morning, was the easiest night he’s had as the Arrow in a long while. Oliver finds himself thinking it – he knows it to be true – but somehow, he still feels exhausted when it’s all said and done. It’s not a lack of sleep, it’s not his injuries, and he knows he didn’t overexert himself. But for some reason he heads to his secondary base instead of the manor, sitting in the dark for… He doesn’t know how long.

It’s not to think. He’s not processing the events of the night. Truthfully, if pressed, he’s not sure he would be able to tell anyone what he was even thinking about by the time he shakes himself from his stupor and returns his mind to the physical world.

It’s not the physical that’s exhausting him, he realizes. He’s just… He’s been fighting for so long, and now, now…

He’d spent the night with friends. Strategizing, maybe. Hidden away in a basement, working as the Arrow. But still with friends. Whatever Digg and Felicity, Tommy and Thea and Roy, think of him, Oliver can’t deny that he considers them – all of them – to be friends. He doesn’t even care that he knows they’d leave him if they knew the truth of everything that he’s done. They are… he trusts them. All of them, even though he knows to be physically wary around Roy. They all think highly of him too. They don’t necessarily think _well_ of him – he’s tense and cruel and brutal, and he knows it perfectly well, and he’s frightened all of them at one point or another – but they all seem to think he’s capable of being a hero nevertheless.

It’s… it’s… He doesn’t know what it is. He’s been fighting for so long, by himself, never knowing who he could trust, never certain that he was safe when he fell asleep each night. And now…

 _Am I growing complacent?_ He finds himself wondering. _Have I gotten too comfortable?_

Thea’d managed to wake him with a few knocks the other day, when he should have awoken by the mere sound of her feet down the hall (socked feet against the carpet or not). Roy’d managed to get the jump on him last night, because he’d let himself grow comfortable in the other man’s presence. And now he’s going to tell Laurel the truth. Voluntarily. No one’s dying, no one’s in danger. He’s just… going to go up to her and tell her the truth.

Oliver doesn’t know what to think about that. It’s not just them either. Lance had all but said that the taskforce was half-way counting on him to catch Gold again – the police force had trusted him enough to take Gold seriously in the first place. He’s got Sara, somewhere. Laurel came to him expecting that he would be willing to rescue Tommy, even knowing nothing about him. Barry Allen’s in Central City, but Oliver knows if he called the kid would catch the first train to Star City. Even _Waller_ had done a favor for him, though Oliver knows she’ll make him pay for that one eventually, and the relationship between the two of them is twisted into something no one else would probably consider trust. (Probably because it’s not so much _trust_ as it is _respect_. They each know perfectly well what the other is capable of.)

It's a lot of people in his corner. More people than he knows what to do with. And Walter’s still helping him with business decisions, and their new maid had come to _him_ for help, even though Moira is home now, _and_ Moira is _home_ now, so he’s got his mother trying to spend more time with him and…

It’s a lot. Grabbing for his crutches, Oliver heaves himself to his feet before pausing. Any other night, he thinks, he’d head out on patrol right now, even if every other member of his team ( _because he has a_ team _now_ , he can’t help but think incredulously) already went home. But he _can’t_ , as the twinge in his immobilized ankle reminds him. He can’t even pace properly, in this underground lair, not with the crutches under his arms. He’s got no real way to expend the restless energy inside him.

Taking a sharp breath, Oliver forces himself to clear his mind. He’s being ridiculous. He _does_ trust his friends – he doesn’t need to constantly keep juggling their motives in his mind, wondering if they’ll betray him, wondering if when they’ll leave. He _doesn’t_.

Except.

Except that he needs to be prepared for when they do leave, doesn’t he? Maybe he shouldn’t be thinking like that, but he’s about to tell Laurel the truth and all he can think about – all he can plan for – is what to do when she leaves. Damage control, mediation. Tommy’ll probably go with her, even if he hesitates for Oliver’s sake, for a short while. Thea… it’s harder to say. She’s stuck with Oliver thus far. He doesn’t think telling Laurel the truth would change her opinion of him in any way. As long as he stays honest about it, Digg and Felicity shouldn’t take issue either.

With what he’s about to do, it’s really only Laurel and Tommy who’ll probably fade from his life.

There’s Mirakuru and their kidnappings and the false Lists and the actual Listers and the individuals who’d targeted the Queens’ maid and all his work at Queen Consolidated and… And he’s got an entire _team_ on his side now, helping him through his issues, and Oliver _doesn’t know how to handle that_.

Gritting his teeth, he limps over to his spare bow. He can’t burn up his energy on patrol, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any other outlets to burn it off with. He’s… he’s got a lot to think about and he thinks…

He’d always meant to do this crusade alone. It doesn’t matter their motives, or what they think of him, but he’s not alone anymore. And he’s about to tell someone the truth of what he does of his own free will, knowing how much Laurel might hate him for it.

Oliver… Oliver’s not sure what that means. But it’s something.

* * *

* * *

_January 8, 2014, afternoon:_

Isabel Rochev is sly and cunning and a ruthless businessperson. She’s on the List, so Oliver’s been keeping an eye on her, of course, but if she plans to enact whatever immoral plans had landed her on the List in the first place at Queen Consolidated, Oliver hasn’t seen any sign of that. In fact, when the board finally decides – when he finally agrees – to make him the CEO for the foreseeable future, she supports the proposition, however coldly. And Oliver _has_ been learning. He’s been working nine to five, and the COO Rankin has been a huge help. It’s not entirely out of the ordinary for Rochev to support the move. (Especially because he suspects the board is capitalizing on the fact that his mother was declared innocent of all charges. _See_ , they seem to be saying, _nothing wrong with the Queens_. Not to mention that he feels that Rochev, specifically, might just be expecting him to fail, might just be looking forward to it.)

He suspects she has her own plans but, given that they align with the majority of the board for the moment, he’s not inclined to call her out just yet. Which has led him to… this. The fact that he’s going to tell Laurel the truth tonight threatens to overwhelm him but he can’t drop his focus. He can’t think about whether or not he can trust the team that has somehow assembled around him. He needs to focus on the mission ( _not a mission_ ) in front of him.

Oliver puts on the widest smile he can manage at the moment, trying to fall back into something resembling the playboy he once was. “So, ladies,” he says, letting his eyes roam over the group of women seated around the room. “Who’s first?”

Most of the would-be-secretaries are professional, but more than a few blush, or look away, and Oliver hears at least one suppressed squeal. Fangirls. Well, at least it will help him keep up his reputation. He prepares a compliment as the first woman stands, and gallantly holds the door open for her as she passes.

This is going to be exhausting. But if he wants to keep his family’s company in business, then he needs to play the part.

* * *

* * *

_January 8, 2014, evening:_

Knocking on the door in front of him seems difficult, his limbs heavy, but Oliver’s made his commitment. He’d promised Tommy. And Laurel already knows he’s coming. He’s tense and stiff and thinks he might just regret this, but he doesn’t hesitate before he raises his fist and raps it against the wood in front of him.

It doesn’t take Laurel long to answer. She looks a little uncertain – probably confused why Oliver had requested to speak to her and her alone – but not too apprehensive.

“C’mon in,” she says, leading him to the living room. “Is this… what is this about?”

Oliver’s been thinking over his words ever since he’d given Tommy his word that he would tell Laurel the truth, but he still doesn’t know what to say. At least with Thea, he’d had a backdrop to build off of – the events of their kidnapping, even the footage of the miniquake playing out on the TV in front of them when he’d finally sat down with her.

With Laurel, he doesn’t have any of that. For her, this conversation is coming completely out of the blue. She’s been keeping an eye on the members of the List, Oliver knows, but other than that, she hasn’t had any interaction with the Arrow since Tommy’s kidnapping. She doesn’t even know that he and Thea had had their own kidnapping attempt.

He sits down on the couch, waiting for him to take a seat as well – not for his sake, because he wants to pace, wants his bow (his fingers twitch at his side) – but because she’s going to need to be sitting for this conversation.

“I never intended to tell you,” he says solemnly. Slowly – too slowly, because Laurel has time to frown and interrupt.

“Tell me what?”

“At the beginning,” Oliver continues, ignoring the question. “I never intended to tell anyone. But, one by one, I kept putting the people in my life in danger. Diggle. Felicity Smoak. Tommy. Even Thea and Roy. They all… they all found out. So now I’m telling you. You…”

The empty middle cushion between him and Laurel feels like an impenetrable gulf. _You deserve it_ , he wants to say, but he can’t. She’s looking at him like… It’s dread in her gaze, and Oliver’s words won’t make things any easier between them.

“I am the Green Arrow.” She might not believe him. Saying it like that, without proof, out of the blue, without any catalyst, after the SCPD – after her father – has already cleared him, she might… But this is Laurel. For better or worse, she’s always known him.

She hesitates for a moment, shifts toward him uncertainly before pulling back, and gazes wide-eyed into his eyes. It takes her a moment to process what it all means, to shift her world view, but Oliver can tell she believes him. There’s no doubt in her gaze, only… horror? Confusion? Hurt?

“I wanted to tell you Laurel, for some time now. I just… I had to tell Thea first.” He pauses, gives her more time to come to terms with everything he’s told her. He is the Green Arrow. And Thea, Tommy, Digg and Felicity… they all already know.

“You’re… you’re really him,” she says, no longer question but fact. The look on her face is a complex mix of emotions and she meets his gaze before quickly looking away, unwilling to look him in the eye.

Unwilling to look at her old friend’s face and see the eyes of a killer, Oliver supposes. He can understand that. And yet… and yet people keep surprising him, after they find out the truth about him. Maybe Laurel…

“All those times…” she manages to say, barely looking at him. “I… I _called_ you for help. I blamed you for not being there for Tommy.”

Oliver doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t regret not telling her earlier, but he knows he should have. (He’d be lying to himself if he tried to claim that he didn’t care what Laurel Lance thought of Oliver Queen – any aspect of him.) She’s still processing. This isn’t her genuine reaction, not yet.

“I… I need time,” she says, still not looking at him. Her voice is strangled, as though she’s having trouble speaking. Oliver isn’t sure if the tears he hears are fear or hatred or if Laurel just feels rejected as the last one told. All he knows is that he’s once more brought suffering to the ones in his life.

He nods once, lingers a bit longer, then leaves. He might have just lost one of his best friends, and he can feel his heart clench in pain at the thought of that, so he shoves his emotions aside in favor of the more practical side of his brain. He’s made his decision, calculated the risks involved. Whatever Laurel might think of him now, he doesn’t think she’ll reveal his identity. And if she does, he has plans for that too.

 _Besides_ , his thoughts whisper, _Tommy came around. Thea embraced you, even if she’s still struggling to understand. Roy still thinks you’re a hero._ Optimistic thoughts. That’s new, and not unwelcome. Can Oliver let himself hope?

The answer to that is no, the answer to that has always been no, and yet, somehow, he still has a team around him.

It’s Laurel’s choice now. He’ll let her make it on her own.

* * *

Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow. Oliver Queen is the _Green Arrow_. _Oliver_. One of her oldest friends. Her ex-boyfriend. Someone she’d once thought she’d married, someone who’d cheated on her with her _sister_. Someone she’d hated for leading her sister to her death. She’d thought they’d moved past all the strangled emotions between them. Thought maybe he’d just been coming to apologize for the distance he’d put between him and Tommy after Tommy’s kidnapping.

But Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow. Violent. Unpredictable. Ruthless. A killer. A hardened weapon. She’s looked into the darkness under the Arrow’s hood time after time after time and seen _nothing_ recognizable.

No. Not _nothing_. There’d been… something. Something she’d seen in the vigilante that had led her to trust him, or at least trust that he had the right intentions, whatever his violence. And there’d been something in Oliver’s eyes too, a hardened wariness that had been most obvious when he’d been talking about when he’d been _tortured_ , on that island.

Laurel had just never connected the two. Never connected Oliver’s subdued emotions with the Green Arrow’s stiffness, never connected Oliver’s late nights with the Green Arrow’s activities, never connected Oliver’s injuries with the Green Arrow’s absences.

He’s been lying to her since he came home. He’d told her to stay away from her, she remembers that now. But that had been before she’d started talking to the Green Arrow – before _he’d_ approached _her_ , she remembers now too. Oliver really has been lying to her from the start.

But Tommy knows the truth. Thea knows. Oliver’s bodyguard. Felicity Smoak, the IT person from Queen Consolidated that Laurel’s only met a few times. _Roy_ knows.

Oliver’s been lying to her for over a year, and Tommy’s been lying to her, and Thea’s been lying to her. How long has everyone else been _lying_? Why is she the last to find out?

There’s too much to process, too much to think about.

The violence in the prison, all those months ago: Oliver. The man who’d rescued her when she’d been kidnapped: Oliver. Oliver’s scars. The way he’d spoken about being tortured on the island. The polygraph he’d taken and _lied_ through. Tommy’s ups and downs with his friend over the months. Walking through Merlyn Manor with Tommy and the Green Arrow, tense and wary, except it had been _Oliver_ there with them, just two friends supporting a third, and neither of them had bothered to tell _her_.

The Green Arrow killed Malcolm Merlyn.

Oliver was only ever on that island because Malcolm Merlyn had wanted to kill his father. (And Oliver and Sara had just been collateral damage.)

All the times she’s collaborated with the Green Arrow, all the times she’s been frightened, staring down the vigilante in a dark alley, wondering at the ruthlessness she’s seen in him with her own eyes. Oliver’s hesitations since he’d come back. His subdued emotions. The hardness in his eyes.

 _Oliver_ had given her the List. _Oliver_ had rescued Tommy from his own kidnapping, not avoided him, as Laurel had thought – as they’d _let_ her believe.

Maybe Laurel could reconcile all that. Maybe she could see the trauma in Oliver’s eyes and the violence in the Arrow and connect the two, even if she knows for a fact that the Green Arrow’s been spotted when Oliver was definitely elsewhere at that point in time. Maybe she could bring herself to understand Oliver’s lies – if she wasn’t the only one he’d been lying to.

Lying about being a vigilante, that makes _sense_ , and it’s a lot to process, and Laurel _knows_ she _hasn’t_ processed it all yet, but…

She’d thought Oliver would be the man she’d marry, once. And then he’d cheated on her with her sister, and he’d died, and Laurel had hated him. Then he’d come home, and she can see now why he’d warned her away from him back then, can remember his sincere apology. He really hadn’t minded her hating him.

He’d been the vigilante back then, he’d always meant to be the Arrow – she wonders how long he’d been planning that, trapped on that island, but that doesn’t matter. She’d worked with the Arrow nearly from the beginning, but Oliver had never told her the truth.

Would she have accepted it? She doesn’t know. All she knows is that Oliver met her in shadowed parking lots and dark alleys again and again and again, never attempting to give her so much as a hint as to who was under the hood. But then he’d brought in others, and still lied to her. Then he’d brought in _Tommy_ , and told her boyfriend to lie for him too.

Oliver Queen is the Green Arrow. Oliver Queen has killed people, cruelly, coldly, violently. Oliver Queen has saved thousands of lives. Oliver Queen is….

He’s the Green Arrow. There’s no adjective Laurel can think of to describe him, to describe the way she’s feeling, to describe all the memories she’s reevaluating now.

It makes _sense_ , _logically_ , that he’d lie about being the Arrow. The Arrow had been a killer, after all. But then he’d _stopped_ lying, and _still_ she hadn’t been told.

That shouldn’t be what stings. He’s… he’s violent, and he’s a hero, and she’s gone to him for help so many times, and he’s come to her for information too, and Oliver has never _once_ let on and…

It’s the lies Laurel keeps coming back to. It shouldn’t be. There’s so much else to process. But it’s the lies her mind keeps focusing on.

Laurel isn’t sure how long she sits there, brain cycling through all her interactions with Oliver the past year, all her interactions with the Arrow – every time Tommy’s mentioned the vigilante, everything the city as a whole “knows” about their resident hero. All the times Tommy avoided talking about the topic with her, or switched the topic whenever the Arrow came up, or was frustratingly vague about his latest fight with Oliver.

She _gets_ the lies, she really does, because she’s already been kidnapped once because of her loose association with the Arrow – what would someone do to Thea, to Tommy, if the truth about Oliver came out? So she _gets_ the lies, in a general sense, understands the mask and the hood and Oliver’s general secrecy.

If it had been just Oliver, she thinks she would have been okay with that. She’d be focusing on the violence instead, on all the good the Arrow’s done, on the fact that he’d killed Tommy’s father (Sara’s killer). Instead she realizes that everyone she knows has been lying to her for months. Well, everyone except Jo, and her coworkers at CNRI.

Oliver. Tommy. Thea. Even Roy, even Oliver’s bodyguard Diggle, even that IT girl Felicity Smoak she’s run into a few times.

Laurel doesn’t have a big friend group. She knows that perfectly well. She’s driven, some have called her. A workaholic, Jo and Tommy sometimes joke. She’s got Jo, and she’s got Tommy, and Oliver’s been there, hovering on the edges as a friend lately, and Thea’s been hanging out with her and aside from Jo they’ve all been _lying_ to her. Just her. Everyone else gets to know the secret apparently, everyone except for her.

* * *

Tommy enters the apartment not long after Oliver leaves it, and it doesn’t take him long to locate her in the living room, still seated on the couch. There’s uncertainty and hesitation written all over his face. Laurel doesn’t know what he sees on hers. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling.

He only stares for a moment, concern entering his gaze, before he takes up a seat at her side, closer than Oliver had been, thighs brushing against each other. Laurel lets him take her hand, but she doesn’t squeeze back. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t try to defend his decision. She doesn’t know if that makes things better or worse.

“How long?” she manages to ask, a minute or two later.

“Too long,” Tommy answers, voice heavy and full of regret. Before Laurel can get angry – before she can tell him that that isn’t an answer, dammit – he continues. “Do you… do you remember when someone tried to assassinate Malcolm?”

 _He’s stopped hesitating over his name. Stopped calling him his dad_ , Laurel notes distantly. Once, she would have been happy about that. Now, she can barely think it. Instead her mind searches backward through the months – all the way before the miniquake, and months before that as well. Sometime in the spring? Winter? Her mind’s not quite clear, but it was almost a year ago now, and that’s all that matters to her.

“Yes,” she says.

Tommy tenses for a moment, probably picking up on the unhappiness in her tone (anger?), but then he squeezes her hand again and relaxes. “He didn’t – Oliver didn’t know everything back then. Telling me… it was the only way to save Malcolm’s life.”

Oliver told Tommy to save a life. Laurel can understand that. She can respect that. She can’t understand why that means she wasn’t allowed to know, all these months. ( _Would Oliver have let Malcolm die, back then, if he’d known the truth?_ she can’t help but wonder. _He killed him in the end, after all._ )

Laurel shakes her head, pulling her hand from Tommy’s. Okay, fine, so the initial reason was logical, and maybe she and Tommy hadn’t been nearly so close back, but…

“I’ve been _working_ with him,” she manages to get out.

“Laurel…”

Here it comes – the excuses that Laurel’s been waiting for. Suddenly, she doesn’t want to hear them.

“No,” she interrupts, standing, taking a step back from the couch, staring down at her boyfriend. (He stares back unflinchingly calm. She thinks it’s regret she sees in his eyes.) “No. We… we went to your _house_ , Tommy, and I, I was so worried for you. We were… I thought you were confronting your father’s _murderer_. I spent _hours_ worried about you, worried he might do something, and the whole time –” The whole time it was _Oliver_ and neither of them had bothered to _tell_ her. ( _Oliver_ is a murderer.)

Tommy stands, his arm making an aborted movement, as though he wants to reach for her hand again but thinks better of it.

“You should have known,” he says simply. “You should have known from the beginning. I don’t have any excuses. But Oliver asked me not to tell you, so… I couldn’t lose him again Laurel. I can’t.”

There’s heartache in Tommy’s tone and she wants to go to him, wants to soothe it away. They’ve dealt with his father’s actions together. She’s helped him through the aftermath of his kidnapping, something that still has him waking in the middle of the night sometimes, shaking from a nightmare. She’d told him about her own kidnapping, and he holds her in bed sometimes when the darkness gets to be too much. She wants to help him through this too – she remembers how much of a wreak he was when the _Gambit_ had sank, even if she’d been so wrapped up in her own grief at the time.

But she can’t move. Her feet stay where they are. They’d been through all of that together and _still_ she’d been kept out of half of Tommy’s life. All his hesitations whenever he talked about Oliver, all his reluctance to talk about the Green Arrow with her… Laurel feels like she’s finally seeing Tommy for who he is. A drastic reaction, sure, but suddenly she’s rethinking every interaction the two of them have had for _months._ She can’t…

“I need… I need time,” she says, the same thing she’d said to Oliver, because Tommy’s been lying to her too. She needs… she needs to process all this, and she can’t do that with Tommy right _there_. She just… she can’t.

Tommy nods once and yes, that’s definitely regret in his eyes, and Laurel’s sorry, she is, but she needs to come to terms with this on her own before she feels like she can talk to him again. “Whatever you need,” her boyfriend promises. “I can spend a few nights somewhere else.” ( _With Oliver_ , Laurel’s mind provides, but she’s grateful Tommy hadn’t actually said that out loud.)

She loves her boyfriend so, so much sometimes, but she can’t bring herself to tell him not to leave. She just stays in the living room as he packs a bag, as he returns a few minutes later, duffle at his side.

“I mean it, Laurel,” Tommy says sincerely, sorrowfully, meeting her gaze. “Whatever you need.”

She nods, tears at the corners of her eyes, and she doesn’t know _why_ , only that she’s overflowing with emotions that she doesn’t understand yet. “Thank you,” she manages to say, and she manages to mean it, but she still doesn’t ask Tommy to stay.

The door closes almost silently behind him, but the sound of the latch clicking echoes through Laurel’s mind until she manages to drag herself to bed for the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't get much of a chance to edit this, so apologies for any errors. Chapter 32: Shrapnel, should be posted January 14th. Thanks for reading!


	32. Shrapnel

_January 14, 2014, night:_

Oliver knows exactly what the call is about, but even with Digg and Felicity warning him against it, he goes anyway. He’s _trusting_ his allies now, isn’t he? Isn’t that what they want him to do? (Besides, he’ll need everyone he can use to take down Gold and the Mirakuru.)

“Tell me this wasn’t you,” Lance snarls at him, as soon as the detective lays eyes on his shadowed form.

Oliver doesn’t tense because his muscles are already taut, ready to run. (His foot, his leg, is stiff in its brace, hidden under his boot, a barely noticeable bulge under his pants. It’s not enough. He can’t run on it. Can’t land too heavily on it. Can’t even _bend_ the damn joint too much. But even trusting the SCPD, even trusting Lance, doesn’t mean that his allies need to know the depths of his current weakness. Digg had sent him a disappointed look, when he’d taken off the boot, but Oliver’s only out here for a meeting. Not patrol. His ribs are fine now, anyway. More or less.)

“Would I be here, now, if you thought it was?” he growls back. They don’t need to waste time on nonsense questions – if Lance truly thought the Arrow was guilty, they wouldn’t be meeting like this. Oliver wouldn’t be here. There’d be a SWAT team (or two) hidden in the shadows, ready to move in. But there isn’t, which means Lance already knows the answer to his own question.

Sure enough, Lance grits his teeth, turning away. “Fucking copycats,” he spits out. He’s too incensed anyway, Oliver notes distantly, to notice the way Oliver’s weight is so unevenly distributed to one side.

“This wasn’t the first attack,” Oliver says shortly, pushing such thoughts aside, ignoring his own injury. (Maybe, it could be another way to convince Lance of his innocence. _Look, see, I can barely walk_ , he could tell the man without saying a word, by showing up with a cast over his foot and a crutch under his arm. But the thought of carrying the crutch in _this_ costume is unthinkable. Besides, Lance already knows he’s innocent (of this crime, at least). It’s not Lance he needs to convince.)

Lance turns to look him in the face again. His irritation is evident, but it seems that he truly does not think Oliver is guilty. Oliver’s glad, but he’s not sure the rest of the police force is on Lance’s side this time. “What did you think of that one?”

_Definitely_ doesn’t think Oliver is guilty then, if he’s asking for the Arrow’s opinion. But the latest attack happened only last night, and even though he and his team have been working hard the past twenty-four hours to come up with an answer, they have no idea what might be the uniting factor between the murder of Roy’s neighbors and the murder of the _mayor_ of Star City. Other than the method of their deaths of course – it hadn’t just been green arrows used, they’d been _Oliver’s_ arrows, old ones that he’s left in people or at crime scenes in the year he’s been active, arrow heads re-sharpened or replaced as needed, fletching firm and true. (A peak into the police files had been enough to convince him of that – Oliver hasn’t managed to get his hands on one himself. The pictures will do for now.)

But Lance isn’t asking about a connection between the murders, he’s asking what Oliver had thought about the original murder. Murders. _Siblings_ , and Oliver pushes that thought aside too. He’ll stop whoever committed the injustice. That isn’t in question either. Not in his mind.

“The kid – the younger brother – had just joined a gang,” he fills Lance in, not sure if the police had uncovered that bit of information yet. “I – we –” because Lance knows about Felicity now; Oliver can say _we_ “– were working on the assumption that whoever killed him was close enough – to him or the gang – to know that.” They’d been working on the assumption that the man was a copycat, going after the small fry because he wasn’t confident enough in his own abilities to go after the rich that Oliver often targeted.

But then the mayor had died. With three green arrows in his chest. At home. It’s a severe escalation and Oliver still doesn’t know what to make of it. Does this copycat genuinely think he’s following Oliver’s wishes, as the killing of Roy’s neighbors suggests, or is he trying to get people to blame Oliver? (Or did he uncover something incriminating about the mayor, and still thinks he’s following Oliver’s original goal? Oliver hasn’t had enough time to uncover the truth yet. He hasn’t had enough time for anything lately.)

“And now?” Lance asks.

Oliver knows better than to press the detective for the SCPD’s thoughts on the case just yet. Even if Lance doesn’t think him directly responsible that doesn’t mean he doesn’t ultimately blame the Arrow. Copycat or someone trying to turn the city against him, either way this new killer wouldn’t exist without Oliver.

“Nothing’s changed,” Oliver admits, though that’s not entirely true. “The killer still knew about the kid’s involvement in the gang. That’s a small pool of suspects.” Smaller, considering someone capable of tracking down the mayor and infiltrating his home, but larger if the suspect was only watching the gangs from the outside and not directly involved. Regardless of the size, it’ll be a difficult pool to define.

Lance growls wordlessly. “You let me know the _second_ you find something, understand?”

Oliver does. He can imagine the pressure the detective is under, with Gold still on the loose, and now this. But… “I’ll keep you informed, Detective,” is all he says. He doesn’t answer to Lance.

(And he feels like he can barely _do anything_ these days, because he hasn’t found Gold either, and he hasn’t found the source of the Mirakuru, and he still doesn’t have a definite answer on whether the men who’d kept Tommy in a dark room with only a bucket and a few bottles of water for _days_ have anything to do with the men who’d tried to do the same to his sister, and the board has been on his case lately (Rochev has been on his case lately) at Queen Consolidated, and his mother keeps trying to get the three of them to connect, and Laurel’s run away from the monster inside him, and he’s barely managing to help Roy, and _his_ _damn ankle is broken_ so he can’t even _stand_ properly! Oliver pushes these thoughts aside. He pushes and he pushes and he pushes, because now isn’t the time. Because he _does_ have all these problems on his plate. Because there are things to do, and Oliver intends to see them through.

He has a team now, Oliver reminds himself, again and again and again. But it seems like lately, even they aren’t enough. And Oliver won’t accept that. He has to be enough, by himself or otherwise.

There aren’t any other options.)

* * *

Oliver calls Superman after the detective leaves him in the shadows. He’s not sure he needs to. The police are keeping news about the copycat quiet for now, so he doesn’t have to worry about Superman thinking he’s gone back on his promise just yet, but he still knows the news will break eventually. Better to be proactive, before Superman holds himself to his own word and takes Oliver in. (Oliver’s got contingencies for that now too, but these are not contingencies he’s planned out with Digg and Felicity. There’s a limit, he knows, to what his friends are willing to consider. His death, his torture, his secret leaked to the world… They can work through reactions to that together. Running from Superman… If that ever happens, Oliver knows it would be only him who’s in trouble. Digg and Felicity don’t need to know.)

After the first ring, Oliver realizes that it’s almost midnight, which means it’s very early in the morning in Metropolis. He considers hanging up for the briefest of seconds before deciding against it. Superman picks up on the third ring.

_“Hello?”_ There is something vaguely groggy beneath the bold tone typical of the hero, which suggests that the man does sleep, at least sometimes. Oliver’s not sure if that’s valuable information or not. He sets it aside.

“I wanted to fill you in on a situation, before it hits the news.”

Superman sounds more awake when he responds. _“What kind of situation?”_

“There have been three murders in Star City so far. Each victim was found with green arrows in their chests.”

_“Any leads?”_ There’s a slight hesitation before the question, but nothing that indicates it’s anything more than Superman simply processing the information. There’s certainly no hint that the hero is even considering blaming Oliver. That’s…

_You’ve got people on your side_ , Oliver reminds himself, for what feels like the millionth time. He’s not sure what he did to include _Superman_ in that number, but he’s learning not to argue against it, just plan for the inevitable fallout. (Because he doesn’t deserve this support. Because he is a murderer. Because he still thinks, sometimes, how much easier things would be if he just shifted his aim ever so slightly.)

“None yet,” he replies gruffly. Asking the hero not to eventually blame him seems almost like it would be too defensive. But he can’t not say anything. He needs to gauge if it’s even a possibility that Superman might jump to that conclusion. “If there are future incidents –”

_“I can help if I’ve got the time,”_ Superman says, not letting Oliver finish, _“but I’m kinda dealing with something at the moment, so my schedule’s a bit full. That’s why I haven’t called in a while – sorry about that.”_

Oliver blinks, taking a moment to process that. “I was only going to ask,” he says, while his mind’s still interpreting the other man’s words, “that you not jump to any conclusions.” He doesn’t ask if there’s anything he can do about Superman’s problems. He knows his limits, and he’s got enough on his own plate at the moment. (Too much. There’s too much, and Oliver’s not sure he can handle it, but he _has_ to.)

_“Huh? Oh, no, I wouldn’t, I mean, you don’t need to worry about that. I’ll give you a call if I hear anything though.”_ Superman’s words, confused and somber, turn bright again by the end of his final sentence.

He _really_ hadn’t considered that Oliver might return to killing. Then again, it’s been over a year now, and Malcolm Merlyn has been the only casualty in that time. Superman doesn’t really know Oliver all that well (doesn’t know the way he still aims for center mass sometimes before correcting himself, doesn’t know how _easy_ it would be to slip into that mindset again, doesn’t know how deeply Oliver has been holding the monster at bay). Perhaps he considers it to be a logical conclusion. Oliver isn’t going to argue with that either.

“I’ll keep you informed of any updates,” Oliver says likewise. It’s all that needs to be said, he figures. Of course, Superman speaks before he manages to cut him off. (The hero is, apparently, getting used to Oliver’s habits when it comes to ending conversations.)

_“Hey, that situation with the super strength, when you were asking about aliens,”_ Superman asks, before Oliver can hang up. _“You ever figure anything out?”_

Oliver doesn’t have to share anything with him. It’s none of Superman’s business. But he needs the hero to stay on his good side, needs him to continue to believe Oliver if he doesn’t manage to catch the copycat before they kill again. And Superman had given him help before Oliver had determined that Mirakuru was the cause of the thief’s super strength. Answering his question now would simply be repaying a favor, which is a good thing, because Oliver doesn’t need to be in anyone’s debt.

“He was human,” he answers, because he figures that’s the information Superman wants. Then again, Superman _is_ the type to want to help, without needing other motives. There’s no harm in telling him a little more. “The police managed to get him in custody, but he escaped. We’ll find him again.” That’s a promise – not just to Superman, but also to himself.

_“Good luck. And if you need any help with that, just let me know. I know you keep saying strength isn’t everything, but I can take a punch better than most.”_

It’s not bragging, that much is obvious from Superman’s tone. It’s a simple statement of fact instead. An offer of help. (If anything, he’s downplaying his abilities – Oliver doesn’t know of anyone off the top of his head who can match Superman blow for blow.) And Oliver… Oliver honestly has not considered asking Superman for help with the Mirakuru. Not once. It hasn’t crossed his mind.

He’s trying to utilize his allies’ assistance lately. He’s trying to let himself adjust to the fact that he truly isn’t alone anymore. He’d let Barry stay longer than he would have otherwise. He’s filled in Thea and Tommy and Roy. He went to Lance (and Hwang) about Gold. He’s even finally told Laurel the truth, no matter how poorly he’d known she’d take it. But the superpowered alien he’s walked through a few training exercises here and there… Oliver hadn’t even considered it. If he can actually find Gold, Superman, he knows, would probably be able to handle the man’s strength fairly easily.

But it hadn’t occurred to him. Mirakuru, in his mind, has always been _his_ problem. _His_ mistake. _He’d_ messed up, going after Gold the first time. _He_ hadn’t ensured that the police would do everything in their power to keep the man captive. _He’d_ let Roy be injected. Yes, he’s involving his allies, but he’s still keeping Tommy and Thea and Roy away from the Mirakuru investigation, for the most part (excepting the fact that Mirakuru literally runs through Roy’s veins). He hasn’t even mentioned the drug to Laurel. He doesn’t want any more people involved in this then there has to be.

He knows he’d be a fool to turn down the offer of help.

He doesn’t need to drag Superman down with him. But…

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Oliver says, because next time he finds Gold, he’s going to do this right. Even if that means admitting that he can’t do it himself.

* * *

* * *

_January 15, 2014, evening:_

“You sure attending this rally is really the best use of our time?” Digg mutters to Oliver as he deftly navigates the car into their reserved parking spot.

“Usually you’re the one telling me to get out of the foundry more,” Oliver returns, already shifting to exit the vehicle. (There’s no one around. He doesn’t need to wait for Digg to open the door for him.)

Digg throws him a wary look over the top of the car as he too steps onto the pavement. “It’s just, this Mirakuru really has you spooked. I don’t think I’ve seen you act this way before.”

Oliver navigates his crutches out of the car as well, internally cursing his need for them as he meets up with Diggle at the trunk of the car. It’s a topic they’ve been dancing around since their first encounter with Gold (since Oliver had almost died a month ago) but he knows his restlessness has only gotten worse since his most recent injury. Not being able to actively track down the man in the skull mask is killing him, a torturously slow scraping of his insides. He’s not surprised Digg’s calling him out on it.

“The Mirakuru isn’t the only thing we need to be worrying about right now.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re stretching yourself too thin, Oliver.”

Oliver ignores the subtle warning in Digg’s tone. There’re no other options but to stretch himself too thin right now. The mayor’s dead, and Oliver Queen is supposed to be a more-or-less reformed playboy who cares about his city. Besides, he’s been following Blood’s career loosely for a short while now, taking note of each wave the alderman has sent rippling through _his_ city. He wouldn’t be surprised if Blood announced his candidacy eventually, but tonight isn’t for that. Tonight is for honoring the mayor’s life and uniting the city. (That the mayor was murdered is well known. That he’d been found with arrow’s in his chest is a well-kept secret that probably won’t last longer than a few more days.)

“We can head to the foundry in a few hours,” he says instead.

“You gave Felicity the night off,” Digg counters. He’s keeping his pace slow to stay at Oliver’s side and Oliver hates it, hates the way the crutches feel under his arms, hates the tightness of the boot over his broken ankle, hates feeling useless.

He gives his friend a look as they near the outdoor stage and the small crowd where Blood intends to hold his rally. They’re early, among the first to arrive, but not by too much. Oliver’s interacted with Blood briefly here and there, but he’s not a speaker tonight or anything. They’re not that close. Still, he knows enough about politics to know it’ll mean something, to see Oliver Queen present and supporting the alderman from the Glades.

Digg rolls his eyes and breathes deeply in response to Oliver’s glare. “She’s getting to be as bad as you,” he chides Oliver, as if it’s Oliver’s fault that Felicity’s working overtime.

Oliver doesn’t entirely disagree, but he knows his friends’ limits as well as he knows his own. They need to stop whoever’s producing the Mirakuru. Until then, he can’t bring himself to argue too much about extra hours in the foundry. He thinks about pointing out that Digg’s been working as much as the rest of them, but Tommy shows up just then and he puts the matter aside. His best friend looks tired and worn in Laurel’s absence, but he grins at the sight of them. With all that Digg’s been guarding him while Oliver’s at Queen Co. lately, the two have become fairly close and Oliver’s grin when Tommy hugs his friend is entirely genuine, if faint.

When Tommy turns to him next, a question in his eyes as he hesitates, before accepting Oliver’s nod as permission and engulfing him in a hug, the happiness settles into Oliver’s bones for the briefest of moments. _Is this what contentment feels like?_ he can’t help but wonder for a moment, before his worries return to him. He’s not sure it’s his place to ask but…

“How’s Laurel?”

A wince passes over Tommy’s face and his eyes shift to the side for a moment.

“Still in Central?” Oliver follows up, to save Tommy from answering. Tommy’s expression tells him all he needs to know.

“Yeah,” Tommy manages to reply. “She, she said she wanted to stay with her mom for a bit longer.” He looks up at Oliver again. “I don’t think she’ll –”

Oliver cuts him off. “I’m not worried about that.” Lie. He is, of course. He’s always worried about that. Always worried about what will happen when the weight of his secret becomes too much for those who know the truth to handle. Tommy doesn’t need to worry about that. Not when Laurel’s barely talking to him. (Oliver’s run his calculations, considers the scenarios – it’s not _likely_ , but that doesn’t mean it’s not _possible_. He has to be ready for any situation.)

Thea arrives shortly after, once the crowd has started to swell, with Roy on one side and Moira on the other. Their mother looks a little out of place for the briefest of moments, when she thinks no one’s looking at her, but then she rallies herself, looking every inch the wealthy socialite she is. It’s an act, Oliver knows now. He’s always known his mother can put on airs with the best of them but it had only been after she’d returned from jail, seeing her quiet uncertainty in the small moments, does he wonder how much of it is fake. He’d always thought she’d enjoyed this life. He still thinks that, but he also thinks that, maybe, she’s questioning her place in it. What it now means to her to be among the elite of Star City.

Regardless, she’s here, and their two groups join up with each other, exchanging greetings and accepting the candles the volunteers are handing out, a silent vigil to the mayor. Oliver had never particularly liked the man, but he hadn’t disliked him either. He feels more emotion at the thought of what the man’s death means than his actual absence, and he knows that makes him a monster but right now it feels more and more like he needs to be one, to handle all the chaos in Star City. (He’s slipping, and he knows it, and he tries and tries and tries to pull himself back from that line of thought. Has he already forgotten how many people see him as a hero?)

Tonight is an effort to bring together the people of the city and honor the mayor simultaneously (perhaps, with a bit of publicity for Blood thrown in, though Oliver doesn’t know the man well enough to know how much of his motive that extra incentive might encompass). It should be a simple unity rally.

It isn’t.

An explosion cracks through the night in the middle of Blood’s speech, blindingly bright and terrifyingly loud. The shockwave pushes Oliver into the mess of bodies next to him. His ears are ringing. The world doesn’t feel real for a moment, muffled by his temporary deafness. It’s nothing he hasn’t experienced before.

Roy is on the ground in front of him, staring blankly at the concrete, supporting himself by his palms and knees, breath stuttering in his chest. Thea’s standing next to him, dazed and frightened. She and Moira are clinging to each other, holding each other upright. At his side, Digg is crouched, eyes scanning the crowd, an instinctual reaction.

His crutches dig into his armpits. His boot is heavy on his foot.

People are running. Sound brings the world back into focus. There is screaming all around him. Oliver catches sight of someone running the opposite way from the crowd. A metallic glint from their belt reassures him they’re not the culprit. Oliver wants to run after them. He wants his bow.

His crutches dig into his armpits. His boot is heavy on his foot. His head is heavy and the world is distant and Oliver _pushes_ himself through it, bringing himself as close back to reality as he can muster with his ears still ringing.

He’s not wearing his comm.

Digg has his side arm; the thought comes to Oliver unbidden. He grabs for his partner’s elbow, pointing with his head towards the running police, the source of the explosion. “Go,” he says. There’s nothing he can do. But he’s not alone anymore.

Digg’s eyes flicker to the others, Roy and Thea and Moira, before returning to Oliver. Oliver’s not sure if his hearing’s returned yet, but Digg gets the message. He nods and scurries away.

Slipping out from under the crutches, Oliver drops to one knee, placing a hand on Roy’s shoulder. They cannot afford for him to snap. Not here. Not now.

“Roy,” he says, strong and fierce.

Roy glances up, eyes wide before they focus on Oliver’s face. Understanding seems to bloom. Awareness returns, stuttering and in pieces. 

“Get them out of here,” Oliver orders, letting his gaze pointedly turn to his sister and mother. A clear goal. That’s what Roy needs right now. (And it’s what Oliver needs too, because he needs his family to be safe.)

Roy twists around, meeting his girlfriend’s gaze. He nods, pushing himself to his feet. Oliver follows suit, cursing his ankle, cursing his need to shift his weight to his uninjured foot, cursing the crutches that are holding half his weight.

“What about you?” Roy asks worriedly.

“ _Go_ ,” Oliver says firmly, growls out, commands.

Roy grits his teeth, looks over Oliver one last time, then hurries to Thea’s and Moira’s side and begins to usher them away.

Oliver takes a moment to finally look around. Those who hadn’t run with the initial blast are moving now, following Roy’s lead, hurrying away from the flames still flickering. There are bodies under the flames. Too many bodies. Oliver swallows down his hatred, ignores the scent of death, and looks around to see where he can help the most without blowing his cover.

* * *

* * *

_January 16, 2014, early morning hours:_

Somehow, someway or another, Moira doesn’t question Oliver leaving to check on Verdant. After everything’s over and done with, and the police have roped off the scene, they’ve been checked over by paramedics, and they’ve made it back to the safety of Queen Manor, she only gives Oliver a long look, lingering unhappily on his injured ankle, before she nods once.

“Come back safe,” she implores him.

When Thea says she needs to come with him, that she’s been managing Verdant for months now and those are _her_ employees in the Glades, Moira hesitates longer, eyes flickering between Oliver and Thea. Oliver… Oliver’s not sure his paranoia likes what he sees there, even if he doesn’t understand just yet what it means as grief seems to shutter over his mother’s eyes. It’s not something he can think about now.

“Alright,” Moira says, full of worry and something that Oliver distantly thinks might just be pride. “Alright, just… just come back to me, alright? Promise me?”

Oliver knows better than to make those sorts of promises – even _Thea’s_ learned better, by now – but it’s just for the night. And he can’t hit the streets right now. He nods.

“We’re just going to Verdant,” Thea assures.

It’s a flimsy excuse, Oliver knows. Verdant is nowhere near the location of the explosion. And Moira’s acting like they’re walking straight back into danger. But it’s been a long night, and they’re all shaken by the explosion, and near-death experiences can have strange influences on the brain. Oliver pushes his thoughts aside as he leads Thea and Roy back out the front door. Digg’s still waiting by the car. He’d been expecting this, Oliver knows.

“Do you need to get home?” Oliver asks, once he’s slipped into the front seat, and Thea and Roy are buckling their seatbelts in the back.

Digg gives him a look, putting the car back into drive. “No. No, I –” He cuts himself off.

Oliver looks over his friend closely. Digg – on Oliver’s orders – had run right into the thick of the aftermath, pressed his hands against bloody wounds and scoured the streets for a culprit. He’s shaken, and Oliver can see it in the tense way he holds himself.

There’d been too many bodies.

Oliver re-evaluates his plan for the night. It’s been too long since Digg had seen such carnage, he figures. Thea and Roy, well, hopefully they’ve never seen anything remotely similar. He can’t… he can’t talk them out of coming to the foundry with him, any of them, he knows now. But…

“Felicity?” he asks, knowing Digg should have called her while he’d gone inside.

“Still there. Panicking, a little, but she’s pulling herself together.”

It’ll do her good, to see all of them, standing straight with nothing but minor scrapes between them. (They’d gotten lucky, Oliver knows. They’d been almost on the opposite side of the plaza from the explosion.) But after that…

Oliver lets his thoughts wander, on the way to the foundry, alternating between worry for his friends (his family) and cursing himself for his inability to do anything. He _can’t_ handle this himself, even if he wants to. His damn ankle is broken, and it’s only been a week. As they stagger into the basement, his partners – all of them – still reeling, as Tommy joins them, silent and listless, eyes wider than usual with the horrors he’d seen that night, Oliver wants nothing more than to tell them all to go home. He wants to shut them out, keep them away from this, throw himself bodily between them and the terror of the night.

The stench of burnt flesh still lingers in the back of his mind, and he can’t tell if the memory is from only hours ago or years. The brand on his shoulder throbs, and he can’t tell if it’s phantom pain or if he was hit with something in the blast.

This is nothing new to him. It’s monstrous and cruel and senseless, pointless death, but it’s nothing new to him. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen – nothing he hasn’t done himself, though he’d never been a murderer on such a magnitude. These people around him now, his family and friends… They shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t want them to be here. He was _supposed_ to be doing this alone, atoning for his sins. These people have nothing to atone for.

But there are here. He’s not alone. And heroes – the hero that they think he is, but more accurately the heroes that they actually are – don’t need excuses to help people. They don’t need to destroy their souls first before they realize they can do some good in the world, the way he had.

Oliver turns to Felicity. Straightens. His senses, his memory, is working overtime, screaming at him, trying to get him to process his recent memories, forcing old ones back onto him now that he’s out of the danger. He shoves it aside, slips into the Arrow’s mindset instead. The Arrow is never out of danger. The Arrow can’t afford to look backward for too long. And against all odds, these people are looking to him.

So Oliver straightens and he holds himself calmly and when he speaks his tone is even and calm, even if he can’t entirely chase away his anger. “Felicity,” he says, tight and in command, “what’ve we got?”

* * *

The bomber releases a manifesto online. Over three hundred pages of anti-government vitriol, although truthfully, the writing’s not terrible. The logic is backwards and wrong in so many places, but it’s not disjointed. Whoever this is, he’s been planning it for a long time. The trigger, apparently, seems to be the mayor’s death – the manifesto ends with praises for the Green Arrow, and that’s it, Oliver’s short time frame of not being seen as a murderer in the public eye is over.

There probably aren’t too many people who’ve found the thing, much less read it, besides the police, not yet, but social media’s been big in Star City since he’d given away copies of the List and all it takes is one reporter to read through to the end and discover the mayor’s true cause of death. There’s no proof yet, but the police will probably want to issue a statement before the press do. Someone will realize that the bomber’s not lying, eventually.

There’s no indication the bombing is linked to the man in the skull mask who’d injected Roy. There’s no indication of any gang connection. There’s nothing at all connecting the incident to anything else they’ve encountered so far.

“Lane?” Felicity suggests tenuously, with a tone that indicates even she doesn’t believe the other woman is connected.

Oliver shakes his head anyway. “No.” Even if she suddenly had switched to killing people, the manifesto doesn’t fit her motives – praising _him_ for murder doesn’t fit her motives. Oliver still makes a mental note to check up on her, if another bombing occurs before either they or the police can catch the culprit, but it’s not her.

They dig back into work. Oliver sends Roy and Thea home after an hour or so, and Tommy with them. Thea makes half-hearted protests, but Roy pulls her away after she manages to get Oliver to promise to sleep. Right now, this is a purely technical problem, one that will only be solved by policework and computer skills. Felicity’s forte then, with Oliver providing backup in the areas he knows most about. Except Felicity’s been there all night, for hours before them, and they’ve all been working hard lately. They’re all tired and overworked.

“The Mirakuru?” Digg asks, as the three of them pack up for the night with little to show for their efforts.

Oliver grits his teeth, fingers clenching tightly where he holds himself upright on metal crutches. “It can wait,” he admits unhappily. The centrifuge is broken and the man in the skull mask’s operation has temporarily been halted. This bomber is killing people now. Oliver knows how to prioritize.

Digg looks him over, searching for something in Oliver’s gaze, in his stance, then nods once. They go home.

* * *

* * *

_January 17, 2014, afternoon:_

Felicity takes Friday off, but as CEO – as a CEO with a lot of work on his plate and a board watching his every move – Oliver doesn’t have that luxury. _But you do have a team_ , he reminds himself (over and over and over). Lance knows about Felicity now, anyway, so she takes care of the phone calls with the police while he’s at work.

By the time Oliver makes it to the foundry, limping on an ankle that’s aching from lack of sleep, she’s got their analysis of the bomb components. Not finalized, yet, but there’s enough there to know they’re not looking at an amateur – their culprit isn’t just someone who hates the government, he knows what he’s doing when it comes to explosives.

“We’ve moved on to searching the databases for similar bombs,” Digg fills him in as he painstakingly reaches the bottom of the steps. “With luck, we’ll get a match, someone we can link it back to.”

Thea and Roy aren’t there yet, and Oliver knows Tommy’s thrown himself into getting his clinic set up in the wake of Laurel’s (hopefully temporary) absence. It’s just the three of them. Oliver doesn’t want to say it, almost can’t bring himself to, but… But he just spent too long navigating his crutches down the narrow, steep stairway of the foundry. He’d put a brace on to meet with Lance, but his ankle hadn’t thanked him for it. He knows he’d be a liability in the field.

“And if we do?” he asks his oldest partner, raising an eyebrow.

Felicity spins back from her computers, turning to look at him. “What do you mean –” she cuts herself off as her eyes fully settle on Oliver’s useless limb. “Oh.”

Oliver’s taken time off before. He’s been injured. Out of commission. But never with so many deadly criminals loose in Star City. Never when so many lives were so clearly on the line. He can’t wreck his ankle even further chasing down this bomber when the Mirakuru is still out there. _You have a team_ , he tells himself.

But his chest aches at the thought of sending Digg in his place, of letting the police go after the bomber themselves. What if someone gets hurt because he isn’t enough? Because he can’t be there?

It’s a foolish, stupid thought, Oliver realizes after a moment. This is what the SCPD _does_. They arrest people – dangerous people. This man is a result of the corruption of Star City, he’s someone the city has failed, but that doesn’t make him one of Oliver’s sins. Unlike the Mirakuru, the kidnappings he hasn’t managed to connect, the Listers, nothing this bomber has done is Oliver’s fault. Even he can admit that. There’d been no warning and even he can’t see every danger around every corner. (No matter how much he tries, no matter how much he keeps trying, no matter how much he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop trying.)

_This isn’t my fault,_ Oliver tells himself, and he almost, _almost_ believes it. It… It’s not like he hasn’t targeted plenty of random criminals before, but most of them, they’ve been let down by the city. Most of them are from the Glades and that, that’s not his fault, but it’s still a part of his father’s sins, still something he’s spent the past year trying to make up for, trying to atone for never noticing the corruption around Robert Queen until the man’s death.

This bomber – username: Shrapnel, Felicity tells them – has nothing to do with Oliver.

It’s almost anticlimactic in the end, taking him down. It’s just that Oliver’s been focused on the Mirakuru for so long, hasn’t even been on patrol since he broke his ankle, that he’d almost forgotten what it had felt like to go after the smaller crimes, to catch a criminal in action. (There’s nothing _small_ about the fires in Oliver’s memories, about the screams and the crying and the fear. There’s nothing _small_ about the almost two dozen people who’d died or the panic that had filed the crowd or the way Oliver’s heart had almost stopped out of worry for his family. But compared to the Mirakuru threatening the city, the way street kids had been going missing and turning up dead for months and he hadn’t even noticed until it’d been too late for Roy… Well, compared to that, it _does_ feel small.)

“Pass the info on to the taskforce,” Oliver decides, because he doesn’t need to call Lance for that.

Technically, they only have an IP address, not a name, but the IP address is for a souvenir shop, not somewhere with public computers, which means it’s an employee – or the owner – they’re looking for.

“Think they’ll still listen?” Digg asks.

Will they? Surely they’ve read the manifesto by now. Lance believes in his innocence though, and even though Oliver knows not every member of the anti-vigilante taskforce supports him, he figures they’ve all known him long enough (known his crimes, at least) to give him the benefit of the doubt for a little while, at least when it comes to believing him or a murderer who’d just blown up a public event. If not, well then, Lance is in charge anyway. If worse comes to worst – if they haven’t done anything by tonight – then… Then…

Oliver swallows, pushes down his guilt and worry and the ache in his chest. Digg can handle himself. If the police can’t, or won’t, handle this, the Green Arrow will take care of it. No matter who’s beneath the hood.

* * *

_January 17, 2014, night:_

By now, no matter how much he’s tried to stay away from time to time, typing in the code to get into Verdant’s basement is second nature. Looking over his shoulder, tuning out the loud music behind him as he makes sure no one watches his descent… It’s odd, the things one can get used to. Even with worry thrumming through his veins, Tommy doesn’t forget the lessons Oliver’s taught him over the last few months. (He’s worried so much about Oliver’s safety that he never wants to be the one to jeopardize it. If this is how he can keep his best friend safe…)

The whole gang’s in the basement, even Thea and Roy stepping back from their jobs at Verdant thanks to yesterday’s bombings, but somehow, when Oliver looks up to meet Tommy’s gaze, he knows it’s not the bombings that have brought Tommy back.

“Laurel?” Oliver asks, low and careful (and worried).

There are a thousand things Tommy could glean from his tone, a thousand old fears that he’s not enough for Laurel, that Oliver will always love her, but those thoughts are distant now. (Of _course_ Oliver will always love her. Oliver still loves him, after all, after all Tommy’s put him through, after the hateful thoughts he’d spit out at him and the way he’d so carelessly tried to cut him from his life. Oliver won’t ever stop loving Laurel, but Tommy knows now that he no longer has to worry about that.)

“Fine,” he says, because she _is_. There are reports of a plane crash and lightning strikes and people falling to their deaths and numerous car crashes, but even as it seems like Central City is falling apart Tommy knows Laurel is safe. A particle accelerator explosion (whatever _that_ means) isn’t enough to take her down. She’d answered his call this time, at least, long enough to reassure him that she’d been in her hotel room and nothing had happened to her. “The power’s out at her mom’s though, and it looks like it might be a while before they get it back on. I just… I was going to…” To visit? Tommy’s not sure if that’s the right word.

What if Laurel decides to stay in Central? How can Tommy call this a visit, when he knows that he’ll always end up at Laurel’s side, no matter where she goes? (And how can he even think about leaving Oliver?)

(Why does it feel like his friends – the two people he loves most in this world – are making him _choose_.)

“You don’t need to –” Oliver starts, sharp.

Ask for permission? Let him know he was leaving? Tommy doesn’t care what Oliver’s about to say. “I know,” he interrupts. He doesn’t _need_ to do anything. He’s doing it anyway. And he hasn’t just come to talk about Laurel. “How’re things going down here?” He looks around at the other four. Digg is the only one not obviously listening in, still bent over the computer screen in front of him, though from the angle of his shoulders he is paying attention to the conversation, however loosely.

“Police took down the bomber just before midnight,” Felicity says. “Got him at home. No casualties.”

A wave of relief sweeps over Tommy. Good. Good. Not that there was anything he could have done otherwise, but… “Good,” he says out loud. His eyes flicker to Oliver’s injury. _Good_ , he can’t help but think again.

Oliver, of course, catches the gaze, but if he reacts it’s not in a way Tommy notices. He’s already stiff enough as is. He’s been tense since the Mirakuru, and Tommy knows he’s got a lot on his plate, and no matter how much he denies it, he’s pretty sure Oliver is still worried about Laurel too, and Tommy doesn’t want to leave him – not like this, not now – but he can’t _stay_. Not if there’s a chance with Laurel. (He hates this, hates feeling like he’s torn in two. He prays to all the gods he doesn’t believe in that Laurel sees things his way because he knows perfectly well he can’t lose Oliver again.)

“Go,” Oliver says, firmly but not harshly.

Tommy’s gaze flickers over the others in the group, working hard, saving people. He feels regret, again, that he’s distanced himself from this, and swallows tightly. But he’d done it for _Laurel_ , and he’s leaving now for Laurel, and he can’t regret that. He won’t.

He nods once. “Stay, stay safe,” he manages to say. He’s speaking to all of them (Thea’s an adult now, but she still seems so young, and he doesn’t want anything to happen to Felicity’s bubbly personality, and Roy’s already suffered enough, and Digg an ex-soldier and…). He’s speaking to all of them, and he means it, but his eyes are on Oliver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, life's been a little crazy lately. The timing for the next chapter has already passed, so it'll be up as soon as I can manage it. Thanks for your patience!


	33. In Distress

_January 22, 2014, early morning hours:_

“Got another body in front of us,” Detective Lance says into the phone. “How soon can you get here?” His tone is as gruff as it usually is when speaking to their on-call hero, but Emily’s known him long enough now to pick up the undercurrent of respect. She can’t say for sure whether or not Lance _likes_ the Green Arrow, but he’s certainly aware of how capable he is.

_“I need a location, Detective,”_ comes the reply. It’s distorted, same as it always is, which makes it hard for Emily to pick up any sort of tone or emotion. (The only vibe she ever gets from GA is sheer, overwhelming _competence_.)

Lance scoffs, and this time there’s derision in it. Emily’s seen him joke with Green Arrow before – if their traded barbs can be considered joking – but with another murder on their hands, he’s clearly not in the mood. Emily doesn’t blame him. She’d processed the scene like a professional, as expected, but she can’t bring herself to look back at the body at the moment. (She just… she needs a moment to recover, before diving back in. She’s young. Still relatively fresh. _You’ll get used to this_ , she tells herself, and she’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.)

“I’m not in the mood,” Lance says shortly. “Miss –” he cuts himself off, looking up at Emily. She offers a faint smile. She knows well enough Lance has been working with Green Arrow longer than most people suspect. She’s not surprised there are aspects of their relationship she’s not privy to. “Your friend got another name?”

_“Oh, uh, not, not yet Detective. But, uh, yeah, I’ve got your location.”_ The change underneath the distortion is subtle, but even without the slight difference in pitch Emily can tell that Green Arrow wasn’t the one to respond. He’d never be so hesitant or uncertain.

So. He’s got at least one partner, and a woman from the sounds of it (and the detective’s aborted greeting). That doesn’t entirely surprise her. He’s always done a lot for being only one man.

_“But, uh,”_ the woman continues hesitantly, _“can’t you just, send us the file?”_

Lance’s eyebrows shoot upwards, and Emily’s own aren’t far behind. Is Green Arrow… Is he actually _turning down_ the chance to meet them at a crime scene? Much less one that someone’s trying to frame him for, or just imitate him? Shock fills both her and her boss as their eyes meet over the phone in Lance’s outstretched hand, but neither of them gets an immediate chance to reply before the call is disconnected – and not on their end.

Emily’s eyebrows stay raised. Green Arrow just… No. Green Arrow’s _partner_ just tried to back out of a meeting. There are… there are so many ways to interpret what that might mean. Star City’s hero isn’t _perfect_ , by any means, but Emily’s never had anything but faith in him when it comes to his dedication to helping people. And now someone’s dropping bodies with his arrows and he’s… he’s not even going to investigate? Sure, he isn’t a police officer. Maybe he doesn’t need to see the crime scene himself. And maybe it wasn’t even him who tried to back out. But that his partner did it for him anyway…

Thoughts and facts swirl through Emily’s mind – every encounter she’s had with the man, her boss’ grudging respect, the fact that neither of them have more than briefly considered that the body prone before them might be there because of Green Arrow. The recent drop in Green Arrow sightings.

It’s a subtle drop. Not something someone else might pick up on. He doesn’t go out every night, after all, doesn’t stop a mugging every night. Some nights he just patrols. Some nights he sticks more to the shadows, chasing down leads. Some nights he’s probably doing whatever he does to figure out which of Star City’s rich and famous he’s going to target next. Emily’d figured he’s been busy, between Gold on the loose and his copycat, plus everything else he usually handles. But this…

“That… that isn’t good, is it?” she manages to say, worried.

Lance’s eyes bore into hers. “What do you know?”

She thinks back to the last time she’d seen Green Arrow, on a rooftop before they’d targeted Gold. That’d been weeks ago. Over a month. She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Just… he hasn’t been stopping too many of the smaller crimes, lately.” There’s no such thing as a small crime, not when there’s a victim, someone being hurt, but Lance knows what she means. He keeps up with the big stuff, busy coordinating everyone else. She lets him know about the little things that slip through his cracks, every single reported instance of a crime stopped by GA, false or not.

“Explain.”

Emily shakes her head again, glancing down at the body beside them. Idly, she wonders how long Lance’s clout will be able to keep the crime scene techs away. (The scene’s already been processed, of course, but the clean-up crew still needs to come through.) “I…” she runs through the statistics in her mind, processes the data she remembers, and frowns at the conclusion that’s been hovering in the back of her mind for days. “He isn’t getting involved, physically. He’s… he’s stopped a few things, here and there, with arrows from rooftops, but…”

Lance’s frown echoes her own.

Emily shakes her head yet again, trying to dispel the doubt creeping in – her own or her boss’ she’s not sure. “He’s gone longer, with less action,” she says, speaking louder. Why is she so worried?

( _Is it because you know the danger he puts himself in every day_ , her thoughts whisper. _Is it because you know he’s just a man? Is it because you sometimes dream of the day you’ll find his body in a dark alley, soaked in blood?_ Dark thoughts, but she can’t help herself. She admires Green Arrow. She believes in him (though he could tone down the violence a bit – fear’s not always the best way to discourage repeat offenders). But she has no illusions about who he is.

He’s dangerous. He’s deadly. He’s going to get himself killed one day.)

Lance grunts an acknowledgement to her words.

“What about his partner?” Emily finds herself asking. After all, it hadn’t been Green Arrow who’d tried to back out.

Her boss’ lips thin, eyes glancing to the side briefly. It’s not quite a grimace, but it’s close enough. “She’s…” he starts, then stops, seemingly searching for the words.

_He knows who she is_ , Emily realizes. Maybe not a name, or anything, but this isn’t the first time Lance has spoken with her. And Emily _knows_ Lance has been working with Green Arrow for some time – it’s never been explicitly stated, but she’s positive he’s the detective who helped stopped Merlyn’s earthquakes. There’s probably a lot about Green Arrow that he knows, and she doesn’t. It’s not surprising, that Lance has talked with this woman before.

Emily doesn’t want to press. She doesn’t need to know _secrets_ , just… just personalities. As Lance searches for words, she quickly tries to think of her own way to express what she’s thinking.

“I don’t mean, uh, I’m not, not asking who she is,” she says, thankfully getting her thoughts together before her boss. “Just, uh, if GA _is_ injured…”

Lance’s jaw clenches again, but this time it seems like it’s more exasperation than denial or displeasure. “She’d worry,” he agrees. “Probably more than he would.”

So maybe it’s not as bad as it seems.

Emily doesn’t get the chance to press any further. The phone vibrates in Lance’s hand and he answers it with only a glance in her direction.

“Listen –” the detective starts to say.

Green Arrow cuts him off. _“I broke my ankle,”_ he says shortly, voice tense and unhappy even through the distortion. _“It’s healing. I’ll be there in five.”_ He hangs up the phone again before either of them can respond.

Emily blinks at the suddenness of it. A broken ankle… Definitely not as bad as she’d feared. Her gaze flickers back up to Lance.

“He usually tell you when he’s injured?” she finds herself asking.

“No,” Lance responds gruffly, quickly. From the look on his face, he’s not sure whether he _wants_ to know.

Emily’s not sure she does either. On one hand, it’s good to be aware of what the hero is (currently) capable of, good to know his (current) restrictions and limitations. On the other… It doesn’t sit right in her gut, thinking of the man as one who can break and bleed like the rest of them.

She knows that’s the wrong reaction, knows that to treat the hero as anything other than human is _wrong_ and _unfair_ and asking too much of him. But he’s put himself up on a pedestal, by his actions as much as the fact that he wears a costume (and now a mask) and sometimes, she has difficulty remembering that that pedestal isn’t real. He’s no different than the rest of them.

She just needs to keep reminding herself of that until she believes it.

* * *

The silence when Oliver returns to the foundry that morning is almost stifling. Felicity is very pointedly focusing on her computers – her shoulders tense when he walks in, and she doesn’t look his way. Digg, on the other hand, very pointedly gives Oliver a _look_ that says ‘we _are_ talking about this’. Oliver ignores both of them, stewing in his anger, and goes to change.

Thea isn’t there. Roy isn’t there. Tommy’s still in Central City with Laurel, helping her mom. Oliver can get as angry as he likes and his sister won’t hate him for it, his best friend won’t look at him in disgust.

Working with Felicity and Digg is _different_ than working with everyone else. They’ve only ever known _this_ version of him. They know perfectly well how cruel he can be. They, more than anyone else, understand the monster that he is.

And they know perfectly well how he operates.  

( _They think you’re a hero,_ Oliver’s thoughts remind him. It’s not enough to stave off his anger, not really, but it gives him pause. Staring into the bathroom mirror as he removes the mask Barry Allen gave him, Oliver takes a deep breath.)

When he re-enters the basement, Felicity tenses. She doesn’t look at him, but her fingers drift from the keyboards, so he knows she’s not really focusing on the screen in front of her.

Oliver doesn’t want to lose them. Doesn’t want to do this without them. They’ve had so many arguments, so many fights, so many disagreements. Their morals aren’t the same. They don’t understand his drive.

He can’t do this without them.

And he can’t do this if they don’t respect his decisions.

He sucks in another deep breath.

“This cannot happen again,” he says, firm and harsh and _angry_ because _how dare she?!_ How _dare_ Felicity think to presume that she could just –

Oliver grits his teeth. He knows his own shoulders are tense, his fingers clenched in fists at his side.

Felicity turns to face him, a response on her lips. Oliver doesn’t care if it’s agreement or an argument or an apology. He really, truthfully, does not want to hear what she has to say.

“ _No_ ,” he says forcefully, cutting her off. There’s a growl in his words, an anger that he can’t stop. _“This cannot happen again_ ,” he repeats, with even more force than before. He _does not_ want to lose them, but he refuses to let them operate like this, refuses to let Felicity get away with this, refuses to be okay with her blatant disregard for _him_.

Felicity’s teeth click shut. She swallows. Glances over at Digg. Meets his eyes again. She’s always been stubborn. Sometimes, Oliver admires that about her. Sometimes he hates it.

“ _Oliver_ ,” she says, soft but tense, a plea in her tone. Her gaze flickers to his ankle.

Oliver’s chest swells up with rage. He has a _broken ankle_! If it weren’t for the way the injury restricted his mobility – if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s _home_ , and he has _time_ to rest, and space to heal – then he’d still be out in the field every day. A broken ankle makes it harder for him to walk, but it’s _nothing_ , the pain is _nothing_.

She’d been worried when he’d almost died – when his mother had shot him, when Gold had thrown him into a wall and he’d fallen onto a box of syringes? Fine. That was fine. Those were injuries that even Oliver can fully admit he was lucky to walk away from. But _this_! A goddamn broken _ankle_!

No. No. Oliver has been _patient_. He wears the stupid cast and he uses the stupid crutches and he restricts his physical activities, at least when it comes to staying on his feet too long. This is the most patient he thinks he’s ever been with an injury in _years_.

“If this happens again,” he says plainly, voice tight with anger, “we’re _done_.” Felicity doesn’t look apologetic. She doesn’t look like she regrets her words. At his own, her eyes widen in shock.

Digg takes a step forward. “Oliver…”

Oliver’s glare cuts him off, but only for a moment. Digg raises his hands, placatingly, because _Oliver_ is the dangerous one here, _Oliver_ is the monster tightly wound on a short leash and _Oliver_ is the one snapping at them and _Oliver_ is the threat – and it rankles because Digg’s _right_ to be cautious, because anger flutters fiercely in Oliver’s chest and violence simmers in his heart and he’d held it in for his meeting with Lance and Hwang but he wants to _hit_ something.

Except _he’s_ not the one who messed up. _He’s_ not in the wrong here, no matter how dark his soul. He bares his teeth, half-tempted to just leave, but listens as Digg speaks.

“I’m not… I’m not promising anything – not yet, not until we talk things out,” Digg tacks on quickly, “but, just. We _do_ need to talk about this. _Talk_ , not argue. I’m not…” Digg closes his eyes and grits his teeth briefly, as though his own words pain him. “I’m not taking sides. Yet. Just, just saying that we need to use our words. We need to… we need to understand what the problem is here, before any of us say something that we regret.” He sends a warning look at Felicity at the end of his hesitant speech and Oliver feels a shiver of shock course through him.

Digg… doesn’t actually think Oliver is the problem here. Or, at least, he doesn’t think Oliver is the _only_ problem here. Oliver doesn’t believe that Digg hasn’t taken a side, if only in his own mind, but for the first time he considers the possibility that it’s not Felicity’s side he’s on. That’s… that’s shocking, however faintly.

It doesn’t really matter. Anger still thrums through Oliver’s veins, but he chooses to focus on Digg’s other words. _He_ knows perfectly well what Felicity did wrong, and he’s got the impression that Digg knows what he’s mad about as well, whether or not he agrees with the reaction. But Felicity… She’s not like them. Does she know what the problem is? Does she understand why he’s struggling not to be consumed by his fury? Does she truly not understand the enormity of what she’d just done? How could she, without having lived a life of violence and distrust?

Jaw still tight, fists still clenched, Oliver forces himself to take another deep breath. He doesn’t regret his words. He’d meant them. If Felicity ever gives away information about his injuries again… But Digg’s right too. The only way to ensure that it doesn’t happen again (other than forcing them out, cutting them from his life, doing this _alone_ again) is to talk about this, to make sure she understands how thoroughly she messed up.

He forces himself to unclench his fists, folds his arms across his chest instead and holds himself tightly. His eyes flicker to Felicity. He’s not the only one who’s been struggling, lately, he reminds himself. And, on top of everything going on in Star City, Barry Allen is in a coma after getting hit by lightning the night STAR Labs’ particle accelerator had exploded in Central City. Oliver knows they’d gotten close, and she’s talked about arranging time to visit, and it’s probably best if she doesn’t leave with this still hanging between them.

“ _Never,_ ” Oliver says plainly, firmly, coldly, “tell anyone about my injuries.” He’s not just looking at Felicity as he says it. He’d thought it was unspoken, but after tonight, he needs to make sure Digg understands too. (Thea, Tommy… he’s not sure they ever would. They’re not _fit_ for this life, for the secrecy. He’d thought Felicity could manage, but maybe…)

“It was a secure line!” Felicity argues back, though she stays seated and doesn’t raise her voice too much.

Well, she’s learned that, at least. He’d thought she’d learned more. Then again, it had been her idea to bring in Barry Allen, however well that had turned out.

“We have _contingencies_ ,” Oliver reminds his partners through clenched teeth. “Not one of them includes _telling someone_ that I’ve been injured.” Hell, back when he’d started this, he hadn’t even told Digg and Felicity every time he’d been injured. Even now he only tells them the big stuff – the stuff that needs stitches, or might impede his movements.

“Those contingencies were for if you died,” Felicity counters, “and I only told _Lance_.”

Digg takes a step forward before Oliver can reply. “Stop me if I’m wrong,” he says, very carefully holding onto his own calm (Oliver can see how tight his shoulders are), “but, what I think Oliver is trying to say, is that he doesn’t want anyone treating him differently, in the field.” His words are slow and cautious and he watches Oliver closely as he speaks, clearly trying to gauge his reaction.

Oliver’s jaw tightens, then releases again. Yes. No. He… he doesn’t know. He’s never had to put this into words before. All he knows is that his injuries are _his_ problem. He doesn’t need Lance thinking he can’t handle himself, he doesn’t need Lance fretting over him and getting distracted as a result. He doesn’t need his enemies catching wind of his wounds and targeting next time they meet.

He doesn’t need Lance to target his wounds, if they wind up enemies again.

Maybe that’s the crux of the matter. Oliver’s inability to trust anyone. Lance has proven himself to be on the Green Arrow’s side, lately, but how long will that really last? How many more crimes can Oliver commit before Lance turns on him again? And Hwang? He trusts her, loosely, trusts her to do her job, at least, but he’s barely met with her in person. They’ve never worked a case together, not like he has with Lance. He doesn’t have years of background knowing her. If there’s even the slightest possibility that they could use his injuries against him… (There’s always a non-zero possibility of that. Which means they can never know.)

“What I _mean_ ,” he says tightly, correcting Digg, “is that my injuries are private. I don’t care who you’re talking to.” How can he admit that he still doesn’t trust Lance? Felicity, especially, will never understand that. (Lance hates him – hates _Oliver Queen_ , at least. If he ever were to discover the truth…)

Felicity huffs in frustration. “You have a broken _ankle_ ,” she says, like that’s a death sentence, like that truly stops him from doing anything.

Digg cuts her off before she can keep going. “ _And_ ,” he says pointedly, “what I think _Felicity_ is trying to say is that we’re worried about you, man. You’re pushing yourself hard, and we want you to heal properly.”

They’re just worried about him. Everything they do is out of concern for _him_ , and while Oliver thinks he may have adjusted to the strange feeling of knowing people care about them, he hasn’t managed how to figure out how to tell them to _stop_. He doesn’t need this worry. Worry is a liability, in the field. It slows people down. Clouds their judgement.

Felicity probably just doesn’t understand that though, and as far as Oliver knows Digg’s always had fellow soldiers at his back.

Oliver takes a deep breath.

“If you are concerned about my injuries,” he says tightly, “then we can discuss that. In _private_.”

Skepticism crosses Felicity’s face for the barest of moments before it’s replaced by determination. “Alright then,” she says boldly, standing. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

Oliver stares her down because he _isn’t._ Because this is Mirakuru, and people who’d been willing to kidnap his only family, and Roy losing his mind, and… He _isn’t_. There is no pushing himself too hard on this. Oliver doesn’t care what happens to him, if his family is safe.

And that’s the crux of the problem, he’s self-aware enough to admit. Because Felicity and Diggle do care. And he doesn’t. The way they view the world is fundamentally different. Oliver doesn’t want to die, has no desire to die (and he’s startled now, to realize how desperately he wants to live, for Thea and Tommy, Felicity and Digg, Roy and Laurel, his mother, Walter, Lance…).

He _doesn’t_ want to die. But he’s okay with it.

He’s the only expendable piece on their side of the chessboard. He doesn’t understand why Felicity and Diggle don’t see things the same way. They’ve _met_ him, after all, they’ve seen more than anyone else. He frightens them sometimes, he knows he does. Neither of them were close to him before, like Thea and Tommy and Laurel. Neither of them started this out by looking up to him as a hero, like Roy had.

“People are dying,” Oliver shoots back, harsh and quick, because he’s not sure there’s anything he can say to change Felicity’s or Digg’s perspective. Words aren’t enough here.

“Yeah, they are!” Felicity says. “And we don’t want you to be one of them!”

Oliver takes another deep breath. Felicity’s words echo the thoughts racing through his mind, the fundamental disconnect in the team.

Felicity and Digg don’t consider his life, his health, to be a worthwhile sacrifice. Oliver does, if it keeps those he loves safe.

He was furious with her, for taking charge like that. He still is. But Digg’s careful intercession has let him see the big picture too, and realize _why_ Felicity had spoken up. She’s never had to fight for her life. She’s never had to head into danger with calculations running through her mind on exactly what she can afford to lose, in order to win. And Oliver never wants her to. He can’t be mad at her for that. (But can he expect her to stay? Can he ask her to stay, knowing that one day she might lose that innocence? He hates himself for it, but the answer to that is yes, because he needs her. Because he doesn’t want her to leave.)

“Felicity,” he says, low and careful. “I have no intention of throwing my life away.” He won’t be able to talk her out of this, he knows. But… “Trust me,” he says, “to know my own limits.”

Those words, more than anything else he’s said, give her pause, but then her expression twists into a scowl.

“Oh, you know your limits alright – that doesn’t mean you actually pay attention to them!”

Oliver wants to turn away, walk away, stew in his anger alone before he says something he regrets. He wants to hit something. He wants to pick up his bow. He wants to go back to their earlier topic of conversation, to make sure that she understands that she is never, _ever_ , to reveal any of his weaknesses, not even to their allies. But he’s the one who said that if they had a problem with the way he handled himself, they could talk about it in private.

Digg steps forward, maybe seeing the ugly look on Oliver’s face, the tense set of his shoulders.

“Oliver,” he says, low and careful, “when was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

It’s _concern_ , clear and simple. It’s concern that had had Felicity reacting the way she had and concern that has Digg mediating their conversation and Oliver _doesn’t want it_! He wants results, he wants Gold, he wants the Mirakuru off his streets and Tommy and Thea’s kidnappers found and his copycat behind bars and he can’t get those results if they’re holding him back!

He grits his teeth, clenches his fists, pushes back the anger welling inside him, resists the urge to pace. If only his stupid _ankle_ would just _heal_ already! But Oliver knows better than most you can’t rush recovering from injuries. It would only cost him more in the long run. They think he’s pushing past his limits but they don’t understand how fully and completely he is holding himself back from doing so. The number of times he’d fought through an injury he shouldn’t have…

But he doesn’t have to _do that_ anymore and he knows it! Their concern has taught him that. He doesn’t need any more than that.

“Fine,” he says, not answering, “fine. Let’s restructure. Delegate. Felicity, drop the fake Lists, coordinate with Lance on the copycats. Digg, are you still coordinating with ARGUS about the kidnappers?”

Digg and Felicity exchange glances and raised eyebrows, trading expressions back and forth, but Digg nods after a moment.

“Yeah,” he says. “And if we’re delegating, you need to focus on Queen Consolidated and Rochev, and training Roy, not to mention keeping your family safe.”

“Ambler’s moved into the manor with her family,” Oliver dismisses, the intrusion into the maid’s privacy only the latest assault against his family after the miniquake, “and my mother rarely leaves the grounds. That can take a backseat, and the rest of the Listers too.”

“The Bertinellis?”

Oliver grimaces. “Ignore them for now.”

“Thea can run point for you on patrol, when she’s here. You can split your time between training Roy and looking for Gold. Leave the kidnappers to ARGUS.”

“The kidnappers aren’t a priority to ARGUS.”

“I’ll push Lyla. They’ll find something, Oliver.”

“You could always ask Roy to keep an ear open too.”

“Not with Mirakuru in him. If he hears something he doesn’t like –”

Eyes flicker down to Oliver’s ankle as he cuts himself off. Well, they’ve seen the results of Roy’s unintentional anger. Silence settles between them for a moment. Oliver takes a deep breath, then another, then turns to Felicity.

“When are you leaving for Central City?” he asks.

She glances over at Digg before answering. “I got a flight out on Friday. I… I won’t stay long. He’s…” her voice trails off, but Oliver understands. Barry’s in a coma. There’s not much she can do.

“I’ll check in with Tommy, while I’m there,” Felicity ends up finishing with.

Oliver only nods, not thinking about Tommy and Laurel and the way his secrets are pushing everyone away. He takes another deep breath, grits his teeth, and pushes down his anger again.

“What happened tonight cannot happen again,” he says, firmly, plainly, a mere statement of fact because Oliver will not accept anything less. He stares down both of his partners.

Felicity’s jaw tightens too, but Digg meets his gaze unflinchingly. His first partner nods.

“Understood,” Digg says without sounding disgruntled. “But I’m putting myself back on rotation, especially with Tommy in Central.”

Oliver blinks, takes a moment to process the change in topic, then opens his mouth to protest.

“No. I’m _your_ bodyguard,” Digg replies, “whether you need it or not. Nobody’s gone after Tommy since his kidnapping. We can dial it back, if you want, but I’m going to do my job.”

Arguing would be pointless, and Oliver knows he’d never had a problem with it before. It doesn’t make sense to fight about this now, even if some part of him doesn’t like it. Maybe he’s gotten too used to being without Digg by his side, or maybe he’s just uncomfortable leaving Tommy unguarded. He shoves such thoughts aside and looks to Felicity.

“I won’t make calls without talking to you first,” she decides, clearly reluctant. “But we _will_ talk about these things.”

Oliver knows better than to make a promise like that, all too familiar with the way words sometimes get stuck in his throat, or anger clouds his judgement when it comes to his past, but he takes the answer.

“Then we should all get some sleep,” he says, and he waits until Digg and Felicity move to pack up their stuff for the night before he sweeps from the room himself.

Nightmares keep him awake more often than not that night, nightmares and the cast on his ankle, but he does go home. That’s… that’s something he probably wouldn’t have done, a few months ago.

* * *

* * *

_January 27, 2014, night:_

Felicity gets back from Central late on Sunday, spends the night sleeping off her jet lag (only a few hours, but flying itself always makes her tired), drags herself to work on Monday, takes a nap that afternoon, and then heads into the Arrow Cave for the night. She’d stayed in touch with the others while she’d been gone, but Oliver isn’t much of a texter, and neither is Digg for that matter – they both tend to be prompt with their replies, but Oliver sticks to one word answers and, while Digg will expand a bit more, he uses texting to convey information, not chat. Knowing all that, Felicity had spent the weekend mostly texting with Thea instead, and it hadn’t taken her long to pick up on the other woman’s irritation.

When she finally makes it to the foundry, that irritation’s clear to see. Oliver’s walking Roy through some very deliberate movements (that show off both their arms very nicely – Felicity’d _nailed_ the right time to return) and Thea’s standing off to the side, watching with a small frown on her face.

Felicity gives her usual cheerful grin and wave, knowing Oliver’ll stop when he’s finished what he’s doing, and not before then, no matter her return. But as soon as Thea’s attention returns to the training (and Oliver’s baton-stick-thingy raps Roy on the bicep for letting his attention drift), Felicity’s eyes flicker to Digg. She raises an eyebrow, inclining her head subtly toward Thea. Things hadn’t been that bad when she’d left, had they?

Digg grimaces in return. No, they hadn’t then. This is a new development, and likely not a one-off for tonight, from Digg’s response. Felicity finds herself grimacing too. She’s in a crappy mood herself, having spent the weekend with a comatose Barry Allen and a Tommy struggling to pick up the pieces of his relationship, but she’d been looking forward to coming home too. Too bad the atmosphere here isn’t much better.

Digg talks her through the progress he’s made on the kidnapping attempts and updates from Lance about the copycat. The media hasn’t blamed Oliver yet, though Lance says they keep hounding the police for a statement regarding Shrapnel’s claim that Oliver killed the mayor. The only reason no one’s making a big deal of it, Digg figures (and Oliver too, presumably), is because they haven’t connected the mayor’s death with the other deaths yet. No one knows they have a serial killer on their hands.

At least there haven’t been any new deaths since the one from last week. (The woman had turned out to be one of Laurel’s _co-workers_ , of all things, though not someone Laurel knew well. She’d been fired a few months ago actually, for abusing her position.)

By the time Felicity’s up to date on those two investigations, Oliver’s wrapped up his training for the night. Roy’s trembling with effort – more from keeping his patience reeled in than any physical effort, Felicity figures. When Oliver tells him to take a seat on the mat and meditate for the next hour he has to physically grit his teeth and hold himself back. But he nods and settles down. Felicity knows from experience that Oliver won’t hesitate to call him out if he lets himself get drawn into their conversations. She feels a little bad for him, but she’s argued with Oliver enough lately that she’s not going to fight him on this. At least he’s not training Roy in back alleys anymore – at least he’s comfortable enough to do it in front of them.

“How’s Central?” he asks as he makes his way over to the two of them, Thea trailing behind her brother.

Felicity hears the hundred other questions wrapped up in that simple one and answers them all at once. “Good,” she says honestly. “We busy or you want the full report?”

Digg hadn’t made it seem like there was anything immediately urgent going on, but it’s possible Oliver’s got plans for tonight besides training Roy.

“Full report?” Thea asks with a wry grin, probably a bit more bitter than it should be. “I thought Digg was the soldier.”

Felicity finds herself blushing, not even realizing she’d slipped into Oliver-speak (but it feels so _familiar_ , like coming home, being back here, slipping into this role again) even as she worries for Thea. “You know what I meant,” she chides the other woman, jostling Thea slightly with her elbow.

Thea’s grin slips into something a little more genuine, but it doesn’t last long, and Felicity looks back to Oliver.

He hesitates, which is how she knows he’s still worried about Tommy and Laurel, but not for long. “Full report. Digg already fill you in here?”

“Yep,” Felicity says, before proceeding to go over what she’d learned in Central. Barry’s… well, he’s not fine, but there’s not much to report there. He’s in a coma. They don’t know when (if, but Felicity won’t let herself think on that) he’ll wake up. Central City itself is mostly recovered from the explosion, though STAR Labs will never be what it once was. And Tommy and Laurel are, more or less, still together. Tommy’s still staying in a hotel room while Laurel stays with her mom, but they’re going out on date nights and talking things through.

“Tommy said they’ll probably come back soon. Laurel doesn’t want to miss too much work and the power’s back on at her mom’s so…”

Oliver’s face is carefully blank. He nods once, filing away the information, then nods at the computer. “We need you to hack a few cameras,” he says. “Roy gave us a few ideas on how to track down Gold.”

Felicity glances over at Roy reflexively at his name, but though he twitches at their words in a way that suggests he’s listening more to their conversation than he should be, his even breathing doesn’t falter. That’s… well, that’s progress, she supposes. He hadn’t been able to sit still for five minutes only a few weeks ago. (Quite frankly, she’s not sure she has the patience for meditation herself, but then, she doesn’t have a serum racing through her blood lending her super strength and enhancing her anger.)

“Sure,” she says, slipping into her seat (and that feels comfortable too, feels like _hers_ , in a way slipping behind her desk at Queen Consolidated hadn’t, earlier this morning). “What’ve we got?”

* * *

Oddly enough, Thea seems more frustrated with the pace of Roy’s training than he is himself. It’s not like he _isn’t_ frustrated – the Mirakuru seems to have ramped up his usual irritation at doing nothing – but he’s also, in the moments when he feels most like himself, oddly content.

When he _isn’t_ feeling like himself then yeah, it feels like Oliver has him sitting around doing nothing. His neighbors are dead and he doesn’t have any answers. He hasn’t thrown a real punch in month, because every training exercise Oliver insists on moving through the motions at a glacial pace. He’s stuck _meditating_ and _breathing properly_ and _focusing_ on staying calm and it’s _annoying_. But… but he’s training with _Green Arrow_. He’s getting trained by Green Arrow. He’s working with Green Arrow’s team, and _Thea’s_ working with Green Arrow’s team, which means he doesn’t have to keep any secrets from her.

Besides, all it takes is one look at the cast still on Oliver’s ankle for him to remember what happens when he loses control. It’s his fault Oliver’s been riled up lately and it’s his fault Oliver can’t fully investigate Sarah and Robbie’s deaths. _He’d_ done that, and he can’t forget that. In the face of that, he’ll do things at Oliver’s pace forever, if that’s what it takes.

Thea isn’t so convinced. She’s worried about the Mirakuru, Roy knows, but he thinks there’s something else beside that, as irritated as she’s been lately.

“I just…” she grits her teeth, letting him open her car door for her. “Why are we acting like we need Oliver’s permission to tell her?” she asks.

Thea isn’t the only one who’s been irritated lately: Sin has been too, and Roy can’t even blame her for that. He and Thea have been dealing with their own issues so much lately that they haven’t been spending much time with her.

Roy hesitates, grateful for the pause he gets as he shuts Thea’s door and walks around to his own. Thea’s in enough of a mood that he knows better than to side with her brother, but his mind’s clear enough at the moment to think logically. (A mental check he’s been running lately, trying to figure out when he’s acting thinking rationally or letting the Mirakuru influence him. He thinks he’s fine now, but the problem is he usually can’t tell when he isn’t. That’s the thing about irrational thinking.)

“Well,” he says reluctantly, “it is his secret.”

“The Mirakuru’s not,” Thea points out, not incorrectly.

He… can’t really argue with that. But Oliver had told him not to tell anyone.

_Thea’s right_ , some bitter, dark part of him sneers. _Since when do you need anyone’s permission?_

But this is _Oliver_ , he reminds himself. He knows what he’s doing.

Except…

It’s not about needing permission, he tells himself. It’s his life. His body. There’s nothing wrong with telling Sin about that, at least. She deserves to know.

“Alright,” he agrees. “But _just_ my part in it. We don’t need to tell her about Gold, or whoever’s behind it.”

“She’s going to want to know –”

“We can tell her Oliver’s – the Green Arrow’s – looking into it,” Roy cuts in. “She knows I’m part of that. And we can tell her he’s helping me. But she’s the one who said she didn’t want to get involved with the vigilante business, remember?”

Thea grits her teeth but doesn’t argue back. Part of Roy wants to press her, find out exactly what’s bothering her. The other part of him feels like it’s _him_ who’s the problem. Him and his lack of control and the fact that he’d almost killed her _brother_. If that’s the case… he’s not sure he could bear to hear it. He gives her her space instead.

* * *

* * *

_February 1, 2014, early afternoon:_

Soft sunlight filters onto the scene through a wall made almost entirely of windows, shimmering and crystal clear in the early afternoon light. The scene outside the windows is picturesque, the grass green despite the winter weather, not a fallen leaf to be found on the grounds. A small, artificial creek winds its way through the landscape, tiny stone bridges providing passage over the water.

Inside the windows is no less picturesque, nor any less obviously expensive. The chandelier that hangs in the center of the room is a marvel of crystal – not glass. The furniture is pristine, the decorations tasteful. Seven people sit in an artfully arranged circle, few of them close enough to even touch their neighbor with an outstretched hand, all of them wearing the latest professional fashion.

“The maid was useless,” one of them says, hands folded neatly in their lap, expression carefully neutral. “We were right to think she’d be scared of Moira, but she turned to the son instead. She’s out of our reach now.”

“Well, he _does_ have a reputation with women.”

“Is there something else we could try? A bodyguard, perhaps? A chauffer?”

“My wife has a plan to handle Moira. In the meantime, perhaps we should worry about Green Arrow – he was spotted in the Glades a few days ago, questioning Quincy McBride.”

“McBride doesn’t know anything.”

“Not about _us_ he doesn’t. I don’t doubt he spilled everything about his friends though.”

“So what? They’re already going to prison – the ones that haven’t disappeared, at least – and none of them know anything either.”

“Perhaps not, but McBride is smart – smart enough to want nothing to do with their plans.”

“You think he might be smart enough to put something together.”

“Our part was subtle – I don’t think McBride could tell Green Arrow anything, even if he realized his friends were too stupid to come up with the idea on their own. But the fact that Green Arrow’s even questioning McBride isn’t a good sign.”

“He’s not the type to let things go.”

“We’ve been ignoring our resident hero until now – focusing on getting the List, on finding out what the Queens and Merlyns know. But he’s getting in our way.”

“We could hire an –”

“Don’t be stupid, he’s proven himself more than capable against everyone he’s gone against in the past. Besides, we’re not looking to _kill_ Star City’s hero. No, I think a distraction would do nicely. Keep him busy with other things.”

“Perhaps it’s time to utilize our friend in the prison system.”

“For this? Don’t you think that’s one card we should keep up our sleeves?”

“I think too many people before us have underestimated Green Arrow – and I won’t be one of them.”

“I’ll give Dr. Williams a call. Iron Heights, right?”

“You really think a _woman’s_ prison would be a better idea?”

“Enough. Iron Heights should be sufficient. Ensure that it can’t be traced back to us. And… it doesn’t need to be everyone, but Green Arrow’s put more than a few people behind bars. If it is mostly his enemies that are released…”

Nobody in the circle needs for anything more to be said. They move on to their next topic of conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, and thanks so much for your patience! No guarantees when the next chapter will be up, but its title is Behind Bars and it should cover until at least mid-February, timeline wise.


End file.
